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Copyright 1954 by Charles A. Fenton. All rights reserved. 
Manufactured in the United States of America. 

The author is grateful to^he editors of the American Quarterly, 

New World Writing, and the Atlantic for permission to reprint 

sections of this book which first appeared in somewhat different 

form in their publications. 

The material written by Ernest Hemingway for the Toronto Daily 

Star and the Toronto Star Weekly is copyright 1920, 1921, 1922, 

1923, and 1924 by Ernest Hemingway. 

Library of Congress catalog card number: 54-7968 
First Printing: 1954 

American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York 



Preface and Acknowledgments ix 













Notes 265 

Index 291 


This book is a definition of the process by which Ernest 
Hemingway transposed a conventional talent into an ar- 
tistic skill. It is based on the premise that his extraordinary 
position "Hemingway is the bronze god of the whole con- 
temporary literary experience in America," said Alfred 
Kazin in 1942 warrants close investigation of a period that 
lasted no more than half a dozen years. That the apprentice- 
ship was a vital element is verified by the almost immediate 
assumption of Hemingway's importance by critics, public, 
and, above all, by other writers as soon as his work began 
to appear in the United States in 1925, and by the durability 
of his creative life. 

The principal instrument of his literary apprenticeship 
was journalism. Hemingway was a working newspaperman, 
both intermittently and for long intervals, during the years 
between October, 1916, and December, 1923. Other factors 
contributed to the nature and importance of this apprentice- 
ship, including war, travel, sport, and a variety of vocational 
and literary associations. Hemingway's apprenticeship was 
extensive, sustained, and purposeful, involving influences 
which have been overlooked or misunderstood. It was a 
powerful force in the formation of the style and attitudes 
which have been generally regarded as characteristic of his 
mature work. It was also, in terms of journalism itself, and 
in terms of his first expatriate fiction in 1922 and 1923, a 
period of achievement as well as development. 


In a very real sense Hemingway's apprenticeship has 
never ended. This too has contributed to his durability. It 
is also additional verification of the importance of the 1916- 
1923 apprenticeship, which established his professional prin- 
ciples and habits. He has continued to impose upon himself 
a demanding growth and a rigid discipline. "I'm apprenticed 
out at it," he told a friend in 1949, "until I die. Dopes can 
say you mastered it. But I know nobody ever mastered it, 
nor could not have done better." This is the story of his 
first apprenticeship. 

It is a story to which many people have contributed their 
memories and judgment. No more than its outlines could 
have been detected without the help of more individuals 
than I care to remember. I have inadequately acknowledged 
my immense debts in the Notes to individual chapters. Some 
of these debts require additional acknowledgment: either 
geographical availability, or their own patience, and in cer- 
tain cases a fatal combination of the two, made the follow- 
ing individuals particularly vulnerable to my persistence. I 
am deeply grateful to Archibald S. Alexander; Professor 
Carlos Baker; Morley Callaghan; Gregory Clark; the late 
J. Herbert Cranston; J. Charles Edgar; John Gehlmann; the 
late Henry J. Haskell; William D. Home, Jr.; Mrs. Guy 
Hickok; Wilson Hicks; Chester Kerr; Clifford Knight; 
David Randall; Mary Lowry Ross; William B. Smith; Y. K. 
Smith; Frederick W. Spiegel; Arthur L. Thexton; Professor 
Edward Wagenknecht; and Donald M. Wright. 

Part of the story, too, was to be found in libraries. I 
was the beneficiary not only of James T. Babb, Librarian, 
Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University, and his re- 
sourceful staff, but also of the Kansas City (Mo.) Public 
Library, and in particular Miss Grace Berger, Reference 
Chief; Stanley Pargellis and The Newberry Library; John 
D. Gordon, Curator, Berg Collection, New York Public 
Library; Miss Elsie McKay, Librarian, Oak Park (111.) Pub- 

lie Library; Miss Laura E. Loeber, Reference Librarian, 
Toronto Public Library; and The Toronto Star Reference 
Library. I am grateful on many counts to Donald C. Gallup, 
Curator, Yale Collection of American Literature. 

Mr. Hemingway generously answered a number of trou- 
blesome questions at the beginning of the investigation, but 
I am even more indebted to him for the grace with which 
he endured the invasions of a project that held little appeal 
and considerable irritation for him. Like everyone who 
serves with and near Benjamin C. Nangle, I owe him 
more than I can say; I owe more than most, since he was 
compelled to teach me a great deal while allowing me to 
pose as his colleague. I have cited one aspect of my obliga- 
tion to Norman Holmes Pearson in the Notes to Chap- 
ter Seven, but it is a debt whose many aspects cannot 
be properly catalogued. The debt was compounded by the 
part he played in the version of this book which was origin- 
ally presented as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of 
Philosophy at Yale University. To my wife, for whom the 
project represented even more of an invasion than for its 
subject, I offer not only my thanks but also, again, my 

Yale University C.A.F. 

7 March 1954 




"What does one learn about writing in 
high school? You are lucky if you're 
not taught to write badly." 1 

Ernest Hemingway has always been acutely aware of 
Oak Park, Illinois, where he was born in July, 1899 and 
lived continuously until 1917. The fact that he has rarely 
written directly of his boyhood there is misleading as a 
measure of his response to the community. By conscious 
design he substituted other experiences for his absorption in 
that particular world. 

A number of unpleasant things happened to Hemingway 
in Oak Park. He was never wholly at ease with its rather 
special milieu, nor it with him. Oak Park, however, has 
always been a fundamental element in his attitudes. It con- 
ditioned certain of his values in a way that is almost a parody 
of popular concepts about the importance of heredity and 
environment. Even in middle age, thirty-five years after he 
graduated from its high school and left its physical bound- 
aries, he still thought of Oak Park with creative regret. "I 
had a wonderful novel to write about Oak Park," Heming- 
way said in 1952, "and would never do it because I did not 
want to hurt living people." 

Had he written such a novel, or should he ever write one 
in the future, it would be intensely discussed, if not actually 
read, in Oak Park; its interest in him has been even greater, 


and far less charitable, than his in the community. The town 
is vastly changed today, bigger, shabbier, less genteel and 
spacious, but Hemingway's legend is an explosive one 
among those of his generation who have remained there. 
Older residents take a perverse pride in his achievement and 
his fame. They invariably preface their discussions of his 
work by hastily disclaiming any actual acquaintanceship 
with it. Their principal concern is directed at what they 
understand to be its general tone. 

"The wonder to me," said one of his teachers many years 
after Hemingway's departure, "and to a lot of other Oak 
Parkers, is how a boy brought up in Christian and Puritan 
nurture should know and write so well of the devil and the 
underworld." Most of the community shares the pious be- 
wilderment of that older group. "It is a puzzle," another 
native declared in 1952, "and, too, an amazement to Oak 
Park that Ernest should have written the kind of books that 
he did." 

Those comments, although they were made at mid- 
century, are in the authentic idiom of pre-World War I 
Oak Park. The community was more than respectable. It 
was respectable and prosperous. It was also Protestant and 
middle class. It exulted in all these characteristics. For Oak 
Park there was nothing ludicrous in its qualities. Its citizens 
experienced the same sense of community membership as 
occurs in such suburbs as Brookline, Massachusetts; they 
thought of themselves as specifically living in Oak Park 
rather than Chicago, just as one lives in Brookline rather 
than Boston. "Oak Park," a contemporary of Hemingway 
once said, without satire, "has prided itself on being the 
largest village in the world." 

As was only natural, though not apparent to most resi- 
dents of Oak Park, such a structure had flaws as well as 
virtues. If Oak Park could boast that it had successfully 
resisted incorporation into the politics and corruption of 


nearby Chicago, thus retaining a mild town-meeting flavor 
in its management, it was also heir to the provincialism of 
village life. One's neighbors were scrutinized with New 
England severity. If one happened to be, like Ernest Hem- 
ingway, the oldest son of a union between two such locally 
prominent families as the Hemingways and the Halls, the 
scrutiny was merely the more intense. It was an atmosphere 
calculated both to irritate and attract a boy who was proud, 
competitive, and intelligent, particularly if his intelligence 
were of a satiric and inquiring kind. 

It was also a rather limited world in the superficial sense 
of not presenting a variety of types or scenes. The forth- 
coming shock of contact with the ugliness of, for example, 
journalism and war, would be intense and memorable for 
a young man raised in such a relatively sheltered world. 
There is a pleasant sameness to the streets of the older part 
of Oak Park, north of Washington Boulevard, which docu- 
ments the local boast that this was the middle-class capital 
of the world. The houses have become seedy rather than 
charming in their antiquity, for fashionable suburbia has 
moved northward along the Lake. Now there are boarding 
houses along North Kenilworth Avenue, but the burgher 
solidity of forty years ago is still detectable. 

It was a world far more homogeneous, socially and eco- 
nomically, than exists today in similar American residential 
districts. Oak Parkers, trying to communicate the flavor of 
their childhoods, stress the fact that there was no other side 
of the tracks; their memories err, as it happens, but the 
deeply cherished illusion is even more revealing through 
being inaccurate. 2 Some fathers were clearly more success- 
ful than others, and there were delicate gradations within the 
social equality of Oak Park, but in the vision of the average 
Oak Park child there was neither poverty nor ostentation. 
There were no saloons, for the town was righteously dry; 
the wide-open streets of nearby Cicero were an unknown 


excitement for most Oak Park adolescents. The center of 
social life, even for the most sophisticated, was the school 
and the family church. The boundary between Chicago and 
Oak Park, in fact, was defined by the irreverent as the point 
where the saloons ended and the churches began. 

In such a community education was as important as re- 
ligion, and equally earnest. Like most Midwesterners of 
their class and period, Oak Parkers had a real hostility to- 
ward the eastern private schools to which many of them 
might well have sent their children. They therefore estab- 
lished for the local school system, and particularly in the 
secondary field, standards that were genuinely impressive. 
Few of the graduates of Oak Park High had any difficulty 
with the admission requirements of Williams, Mount Holy- 
oke, Wellesley, Yale, Amherst, or the fashionable and more 
regionally attractive Beloit. Oak Park candidates dominated 
the competitive exams for the ten scholarships the Univer- 
sity of Chicago awarded annually to area students. Teach- 
ing salaries were well above the average. The academic plant 
was first-class in every way. Those graduates who later 
attended college the percentage was generally as high as 
two-thirds of a senior class, exceptional for the period 
frequently discovered that Oak Park teaching was superior 
to their later instruction. Residents of the town were likely 
to maintain, with justification, that four years at Oak Park 
High were the equivalent of two years of college. 

The school's curriculum, quite naturally, was built 
around the liberal arts. The English Department, to which 
Hemingway responded most fully, and in whose classes 
his contemporaries remembered him most clearly, was large 
and efficient. English was required during each of the four 
years. For all classes, from English I through English IV, 
there was an emphasis on the fundamentals of language. "I 
think the level of instruction in Oak Park was high," said 
Janet Lewis, a 1916 graduate who became both a poet and 


university teacher, "because we learned to spell, and to 
write coherently." 

Even in freshman year, however, there were also inten- 
sive reading assignments. The backbone of the syllabus was 
the literary achievement of the past, to such a degree, in 
fact, that the University of Chicago once criticized the 
English Department for the predominance of classics in its 
courses. In their first year of English the Oak Park students 
read a widely used text of the period, H. A. Guerber's 
Myths of Greece and Rome. The stories were "narrated," 
Guerber pointed out in his subtitle, "with special reference 
to literature and art." Guerber's presentation of the myths 
themselves was in a conventionally literary idiom, but his 
narrative style was lively and entertaining. 

There was, in fact, an emphasis on narrative in English 
I, where Hemingway's section was taught by Frank J. Platt, 
the department chairman. Two of the supplementary texts 
were Rhodes' Old Testament Narratives and One Hundred 
Narrative Poems. The fiction that was read in class, novels 
such as Ivanhoe, was material of the same emphatic story 
content. There was also a great deal of outside reading. 
Some of it was in "good current literature" H. G. Wells, 
for example, and Owen Wister but the popular novels of 
the era were virtually outlawed. 

It was nonetheless as sound a reading background as one 
could ask of a freshman English course, and superior to the 
average curriculum. It becomes less lugubrious in terms of 
Hemingway's mature work when we recall that he subse- 
quently said, "that's how I learned to write by reading 
the Bible," adding that by the Bible he meant particularly 
the Old Testament. 3 The concern with the substantial work 
of the past continued in English II, part of whose assign- 
ments and classroom discussions included a survey of Amer- 
ican literature. English HI was primarily public speaking 
and essay writing. In senior year the emphasis returned to 


the classics. Here, in English IV, Oak Park seniors encoun- 
tered a study of English literature so thorough that one of 
Hemingway's classmates later found that an advanced Eng- 
lish survey at the University of Chicago was a duplication 
of his high school course. The discipline of intensive drill 
which had begun in English I was thus continued in the 
fourth year, save that now it revolved around the study and 
memorization of long passages of verse, particularly Chaucer 
and Shakespeare. 

By senior year, however, Hemingway was writing as well 
as reading. His instructor in English I, in fact, who remem- 
bered him as a "bright scholar," gifted in "the communica- 
tive arts," later maintained that even in his freshman themes 
Hemingway wrote "with an avid interest in realistic adven- 
ture." Several contemporaries from Mr. Platt's section had 
the same memories. They also remembered that Fleming- 
way's work was highly individual. "I can recall," said one 
of them, who was for a time a close friend and neighbor, 
"that his writings in this class were different to the extent 
that it seemed to me they might not be acceptable as the 

It was after freshman year, however, that Hemingway 
worked under what he himself cited as his significant 
teachers. Questioned many years later about the English 
faculty in general, Hemingway mentioned only two teach- 
ers. "In High School," he said in 1951, "I had two teachers 
of English: Miss Fannie Biggs and Miss Dixon. I think they 
were the two advisers on the Tabula [the school literary 
magazine] and they were both very nice and especially 
nice to me because I had to try to be an athlete as well as 
try to learn to write English." Miss Biggs' and Miss Dixon's 
principal teaching assignments were in the upperclass 
courses that stressed composition and public speaking. 
Hemingway's interest in writing was stimulated both by 


the nature of the curriculum and by the particular gifts of 
these two teachers. 

"I think Ernie started seriously to write soon after 1915," 
said an older student who saw a good deal of him at this 
time. "He had a typewriter on the third floor, well away 
from his family. By that time he was writing for the fun 
of it and apparently felt that he was developing ability 
along that line. He would read to me some of the things he 
was writing and was quite enthusiastic." It was about this 
time too, however, as he became heavy enough for the 
varsity squads, that athletics began to interfere with his 
writing. "It was not like Scott [Fitzgerald] wanting to be 
an athlete," Hemingway once explained. "I had no ambi- 
tion nor choice. At Oak Park if you could play football 
you had to play it." Miss Dixon and Miss Biggs relieved 
some of the frustration. 

They were exceptional as teachers and as individuals. 
Their quality is eagerly documented by the testimony of 
colleagues and students. Margaret Dixon expressed in her 
classes the vigor and conviction of an articulate, positive 
woman. She was gifted in and interested by verbal narra- 
tive. "At an evening social or party among friends," the 
chairman of her department remembered, "she would be 
the center of attraction, as she regaled her listeners with 
details of some lively experience." A classmate of Heming- 
way, who later became a teacher himself, remembered her 
with startling clarity. Edward Wagenknecht studied under 
her for two successive years, and "knew her very well." He 
could recall both her personality and her classes. 

"Margaret Dixon," said Wagenknecht in 1951, "was a 
very frank, straightforward, honest, down-to-earth person, 
though within the standards of decorous respectability that 
were favored in Oak Park. She had a temper, and her class 
was never a dull place. She was an outspoken liberal. Again 
and again, she expressed in the classroom her admiration for 


Woodrow Wilson and her utter contempt for Theodore 
Roosevelt. She was also more interested in movies than most 
high school teachers admitted they were in those days." 

Miss Dixon's friends in Oak Park often heard her de- 
scribe Hemingway with enthusiasm, speaking of him as the 
most brilliant student she ever had; they realized too that 
a woman of her hard integrity would be incapable of alter- 
ing the past to fit the achievement of Hemingway's matu- 
rity. In her teaching, according to a classmate who worked 
with Hemingway on the school paper and sat near him in 
class, Miss Dixon "pushed the creative side, and urged us 
to use our imagination and dare to try putting into writing 
our original and interesting thoughts." Miss Dixon was a 
blunt critic. u She was salty in her criticism, proud and full 
of praise for our efforts and quite ready to rip at what was 
not good." 

Margaret Dixon's importance to Hemingway was in this 
area of temperament and attitude. Her blunt honesty and 
mild iconoclasm were valuable antidotes to the smug com- 
placence of Oak Park. "Her economic and social ideas," 
one of her personal friends recalled drily, "were somewhat 
at variance with the very conservative school and com- 
munity." American high schools have been blessed with 
many Miss Dixons; she was not professionally unique, nor 
was her relationship with Hemingway an unusual one, but it 
was a piece of extreme good fortune that she was available 
to Hemingway. "She was always trying to get us to write 
stories and essays," another classmate of Hemingway testi- 
fied. "I don't believe I ever had any professors at Dart- 
mouth or Illinois who were better instructors and I majored 
in English." 

Fannie Biggs, the other English teacher whom Heming- 
way described as "very nice and especially nice to me," was 
the ideal complement for Miss Dixon. "She was a kind of 
genius," according to one of her colleagues, "a frail but 


wiry little woman, with a well-read mind, with exacting 
requirements, and with a fine sense of humor." Her associ- 
ates defined the two women by comparing them to one 
another. "Miss Dixon's work," said another member of the 
department, "was a clarification in whatever the assign- 
ment might be. Miss Biggs, out of much more tempera- 
mental disposition, would flourish more in the field of 

Fannie Biggs' interest in Hemingway was somewhat 
more personal than Miss Dixon's. She responded not only 
to his potential as a student, but to his problems as an indi- 
vidual. She observed his difficulties, most of them common 
to all adolescent boys, a few of them peculiar to his par- 
ticular position, and did what she could, in the most tenta- 
tive way, to soften them. Hemingway was at ease with her, 
in a manner that was neither odd nor excessive. Occasion- 
ally he spoke to her in a peripheral fashion about something 
that was troubling him. A year after he graduated from 
high school, and with seven months of Kansas City news- 
paper work completed, it was to Fannie Biggs that Heming- 
way boasted mildly about his journalistic triumphs, just 
before he left in May, 1918 for the war in Italy. Years later, 
when he recalled the one teacher as Miss Dixon, he remem- 
bered the other as Fannie Biggs. There was a difference. 

The difference came as much as anything from the fact 
that while Miss Dixon was interested in writing, Fannie 
Biggs was devoted to it. It was Fannie Biggs who was the 
principal force in the Story Club, a picked class which was 
selected by competition at the end of junior year and which 
met once a week under her leadership during the next year. 
These seniors, usually a group of twenty-five, read their 
stories aloud and discussed them critically. "I remember," 
one of those young writers declared, "that she was always 
particularly pleased when Ernest would come up with 
something definitely unusual." Other classmates had the 


same recollections. "She was very much interested in Ernest 
and his evident ability and love of writing. I have clearly 
remembered and mentioned many times her picking out 
themes of Ernest's and reading them to the class as out- 
standing examples of whatever it was she had requested." 
Oak Park regarded Fannie Biggs as the creative member 
of the English Department. Her students could always re- 
call the energy of her vision, and one of them remembered 
that when she helped him on his commencement address, 
in the spring of 1917, she reshaped his heavy paragraphs 
into "a poetic approach whose meaning I scarcely under- 
stood at the time and have come to value later." The title 
toward which she led young Edward Willcox's oratory 
indicates the nature of her temperament. His commence- 
ment address for the class of 1917 was "A Plea for Pan." 

It would be a distortion, however, to conceive of Hem- 
ingway as a predominantly bookish or literary high school 
student. In the accumulation of extracurricular posts and 
memberships Hemingway was spectacularly well-rounded. 
It required eight lines to list his achievements in the Class 
Book. Only the class president and one of its star athletes 
exceeded him in the length of their paragraphs. 

Hemingway was chosen to write the Class Prophecy, 
which automatically admitted him to the elite group of 
Class Day Speakers. He was a member of the orchestra 
during his first three years. In senior year he played Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan in the class play, Fitch's Beau BrummelL 
As a junior he was a reporter for the weekly newspaper, 
the Trapeze; the next year he became one of its six editors. 
During both those years he contributed stories and poems 
to the literary magazine. In his last two years he belonged 
to a trio of debating and self-improvement groups. The 


Hanna Club met at regular intervals to listen to prominent 
businessmen and local civic leaders; the Burke Club was an 
exercise in oratory and parliamentary procedure, and the 
Boys' High School Club offered its members a series of 
addresses "on efficiency, Christianity and such things that 
are desirable to the life of a boy." 4 Hemingway was in the 
Athletic Association as a freshman, sophomore, and senior. 
He played junior varsity football in his second and third 
years; in his senior year he was on the championship first 
team. He was track manager, too, that year, and a member 
of the swimming team. He was captain of water basketball. 
During his first three years, according to the Class Book, 
he belonged to the Boys' Rifle Club. 

That particular membership became part of the class 
legend, for the Boys' Rifle Club was in reality a desperate 
inspiration which Hemingway devised as editor of the 
Trapeze, during a week when he was confronted by an 
empty column and no material with which to fill it. He 
hastily created the mythical organization, stimulated by the 
existence of a genuine Girls' Rifle Club, and listed himself 
and five friends as members. The story was read with inter- 
est and acceptance, and for several weeks, according to the 
late Morris Musselman, Hollywood writer and Oak Park 
classmate, Hemingway filed additional stories about the 
club's matches and incredible skill. In the spring the Class 
Book editors, in good faith, asked for a picture of the group. 
Hemingway was equal to the crisis. He borrowed a shotgun 
for each of the five marksmen, none of whom had either 
owned or fired such a weapon, and posed them profession- 

The anecdote restores the proper perspective to any con- 
ception of Hemingway as a mere victim of a highly organ- 
ized school hierarchy. He was as vigorously competitive in 
Oak Park as he has been in his manhood. This spirited 
energy has even contributed one element of his artistic 


creed. "Listen," he told a young writer in 1936, "there is 
no use writing anything that has been written before unless 
you can beat it. What a writer in our time has to do is write 
what hasn't been written before or beat dead men at what 
they have done." 5 

He is not always as literarily belligerent as that, however, 
and frequently his artistic pronouncements have been sar- 
donic and relaxed. The Rifle Club burlesque of extracur- 
ricular frenzy represented the same healthy self-irony. 
Hemingway has seldom been able to resist a challenge in 
any area of his life, but he has rarely solemnized his com- 
petitive zeal. The instinct to win has been almost a reflex; 
his conscious attitude toward the reflex has caused it to 
become graceful. "I remember," said one classmate, "that 
often his themes were humorous. And this is something I 
have talked about since he was gay in those days, always 
laughing, carefree. His literary ability was recognized, but 
one might have predicted that he would be a writer of 

It was characteristic of such a temperament that this 
buoyancy should disguise a more somber aspect of his life 
and attitudes. Hemingway as an adult has never taken any- 
thing easily, nor do many high school students of intelli- 
gence and sensitivity have an entirely carefree existence. 
It is this side of his Oak Park boyhood which has been 
emphasized by Freudian literary commentators and casual 
biographers. Hemingway himself has encouraged the legend 
of a turbulent youth. The occasional tensions of the period 
have been magnified until the symbol of his boyhood is a 
runaway vagabondage. Such episodes did occur of course, 
as they occur for many boys; they are almost a pattern for 
a certain kind of middle-class American boyhood. 

His brief flights from home sufficiently brief so that he 
never dropped back in school because of them were little 
more than the rebellious independence of a restless boy. 


Years later Hemingway declared that the best training for 
a writer was an unhappy boyhood. This was in part a seri- 
ous statement, applicable to a degree in his own case; in 
part, too, it was a sly comment on literature in general and 
first novels in particular, and an ironic, characteristic be- 
littlement of artistic solemnity. To think of his adolescence 
in terms of misery or maladjustment is to misunderstand 
his Oak Park experience and his personality as a whole. 

It is true that his adolescence was made difficult by the 
intensity of his own character and the complexity of his 
family relationships. Normally his common sense and 
energy sustained him; occasionally he had bleak moments. 
The spartan demands of his physician father invariably con- 
flicted with the rich artistic aura which his mother at- 
tempted to cast over her family; there was inevitable con- 
fusion and bitterness for a boy as responsive and sensitive 
as their oldest son. The stress of emotional tension, how- 
ever, contributed to the growing opaqueness of his vision. 
From his wanderings and escapades he began to acquire a 
precocious wisdom. Some of the faculty, and an occasional 
contemporary, sensed in him an unusual awareness. "When 
I expressed surprise at the sophistication of his books," said 
a classmate who was the daughter of a teacher, "my father 
said that he had been more knowing in high school than 
the rest of us." 

Little of this ambivalence was readily apparent. It was 
never more than a minor factor in an otherwise restless but 
reasonably well-adjusted period. "I heard stories about 
Ernest being a 'tough guy/ having run away from home, 
etc.," said Edward Wagenknecht, "but I never saw any- 
thing to confirm any of this." He could hardly have ac- 
quired those eight inches devoted to him in the class book 
had his four years been chaotic or disturbed. The epitaph 
beneath his extracurricular record summed up the wry, im- 


pressed assessment of his contemporaries. "None," they 
concluded, "are to be found more clever than Ernie." 6 

The cleverness which his Oak Park classmates discovered 
in Hemingway went beyond the casual wit and horseplay 
of high school friendships. It also took the more permanent 
form of publication. Most of his classmates remembered 
this role as primarily that of an entertaining reporter and 
columnist for the school newspaper. He also published a 
moderate amount of fiction and verse in the literary maga- 
zine; his work in the Tabula reaffirms those qualities which 
caused his classmates to greet with eagerness the themes he 
read in the English courses. 

Hemingway never held office on the Tabula, and, indeed, 
the aggressiveness which he brought to the more conven- 
tionally masculine activities was conspicuously absent or 
concealed in his early attitude toward both the magazine 
and the newspaper. There was a reticence in his attitude 
toward all artistic or semi-artistic endeavor. Its origins were 
in his personal background. He lived in a household where 
creative talent was oppressively honored. For a time he 
deliberately cultivated the other capacities of his tempera- 
ment. When his stories did begin to appear in the Tabula 
it was almost by an act of conspiracy on the part of his 

"He never submitted a story or essay to the school maga- 
zine while 1 was on it," said a classmate whose editorial 
tenure on the Tabula covered their junior arid senior years. 
"But Mr. Platt, the magazine's faculty adviser, came with 
a manuscript, evidently handed to him by Miss Dixon, and 
I knew that this essay or story about a hunting expedition 
was considered good enough by the teachers that it was to 
be printed whether it appealed to me or not." 


The story itself, "Judgment of Manitou," published in 
the issue of February, 1916, is quite naturally without ar- 
tistic validity, save in the synthetic hindsight of Heming- 
way's mature work. 7 The dialogue, it is true, was neither 
forced nor literary, and the narrative was brisk and lucid. 
To cite the story as a prophecy of ultimate creative force, 
however, would be bogus. The fiction was noteworthy 
only in the sense that it is always noteworthy when a high 
school junior labors long enough to contrive a readable 
narrative. "Judgment of Manitou" was thoroughly read- 
able. It marked the author as possessing an interest in the 
mechanics of storytelling. Its rich detail indicated that he 
enjoyed writing it. More than that, in terms of foreshadow- 
ing, it does not permit. Dealing as it did with the scenes 
Hemingway encountered each summer at the family home 
in northern Michigan, it could be said to confirm his early 
absorption in nature and in violence. The vindictive trapper 
and the young associate whom he murders, their conflict 
framed in the mysticism of Indian folklore, are reminiscent 
of a Jack London treatment. It is a savage story, tempered 
by irony, and those characteristics have been basic in his 
later work. Had Hemingway become a minor poet, on the 
other hand, or a slick serialist, "Judgment of Manitou" 
could be juggled with equal plausibility into becoming a 
promise of subsequent achievement in verse or in the 
women's magazines. 

The story's utility as an index to this phase of Heming- 
way's apprenticeship lies in certain negative areas. Its liter- 
acy documents the sound education he was receiving. The 
story is superior to most adolescent fiction by virtue of its 
control and lucidity. Sixteen-year-old authors normally pro- 
duce material that is throttled by false starts and frequent 
climaxes; the ending is frequently without relation to the 
beginning, and characters tend to appear from nowhere 
and dissolve with equal ease. "Judgment of Manitou" wa$ 


clear and precise. The orderly presentation reflected the 
discipline Hemingway had received in the fundamentals of 
composition. The absence of stylistic affectations was a 
tribute to the good taste of his teachers. "Judgment of 
Manitou" was an unpretentious story, elaborate only in its 
relatively complicated plot. Its sturdy clarity was far more 
durable as a base. 

By his junior year, indeed, when Hemingway wrote this 
story, he was in some ways unusually thoughtful about 
writing, although the bulk of his energy was still absorbed 
by more conventional outlets. He was responding to his 
teaching in a brooding, undramatic way. One of the most 
acute of his classmates, herself very much interested in 
writing, could remember that at this time she had not read 
widely enough to grasp all the subtleties of elementary 
literary technique. "When Ernest one day spoke of an 
author's style/' she said later, "I knew that he had either 
read more or was more sensitive than I." She recalled that 
some of Hemingway's classroom exercises were entirely 
beyond her. "He wrote a story about an Irish detective 
named O'Hell that was outside my orbit." 

Hemingway's next work in the Tabula demonstrated 
this same kind of approach, an instinctive professionalism 
which was a blend of inclination, reading, and the example 
of persuasive, unaffected teachers. "A Matter of Colour" 
was published in the following issue of the Tabula, in April, 
1916. 8 The story was in some ways an improvement over 
its predecessor, particularly in its less obvious reliance on 
coincidence. Hemingway's principal strength, however, 
continued to be his utilization of material which he had 
either experienced or observed. He dealt with the prize 
fight world he was just then encountering through his box- 
ing lessons in a Chicago gym. 

He made no attempt to impose a statement on the story. 
Its basic structure was an ironic anecdote about a crooked 


fight. The denouement was withheld until the final line; 
everything hinged upon the information of that last sen- 
tence. The treatment reflected the current debt to O. 
Henry. It was pure gimmick, a build-up for a vaudeville 
punch line. The story was presented as a monologue by a 
veteran fight manager. Old Bob Armstrong spoke in lan- 
guage which was an attempt to reproduce an authentic 
idiom, but, like the narrators in most professional magazine 
fiction of the period, he was so carefully shaped into a 
recognizable type that his speech became a single heavy 
cliche. Occasionally Hemingway permitted the dialogue to 
flow without the hackneyed phrases. " 'It can't be helped,' 
says Dan. 'That bag wasn't fastened proper; I'll fight any- 
way/ " The primary significance of Hemingway's Tabula 
stories is to emphasize the crucial apprenticeship which lay 
ahead of him in journalism, in war, and in the European 
associations of the 1920's. His high school fiction demon- 
strates that he was blessed with an acute interest in all new 
experience, a ready narrative style, and a sound training in 
clear self-expression. The rest would come only after a 
series of increasingly more sophisticated tutors and a vast 
amount of personal growth and application. 

The momentum of English III, out of which had come 
"Judgment of Manitou" and "A Matter of Colour," was 
nevertheless an important factor. It sustained Hemingway's 
instinct toward creative writing even during his senior year, 
when most of the impulse was being satisfied by his work 
for the school newspaper. The first issue of the 1916-17 
Tabula, published in November, featured another story 
drawn from the northern Michigan material. 9 "Sepi Jingan" 
was also largely dialogue, a tale of violence and revenge 
told by an O jib way Indian. This time Hemingway avoided 
the artificiality of total monologue. There was a base of 
fragmentary exposition; the narrator asked occasional ques- 
tions that kept the Indian's speech fluid. 


The most promising characteristic of "Sepi Jingan," how- 
ever, was Hemingway's introduction of a statement. His 
conception of the two previous stories had never gone 
beyond the anecdotes themselves. Now he created another 
dimension by inserting the paradox of an O jib way killer 
who was also a kind, decent man, patient with the questions 
of the young summer resident, tender with the dog, Sepi 
Jingan, and more deeply concerned about the merits of 
various pipe tobaccos than the savage memories of the 
manhunt he was describing. The statement was clumsily 
handled at times, nor, understandably, had Hemingway yet 
learned to make a thesis unobtrusive and implicit. The dia- 
logue, however, was smoother, partially cleansed of the 
tendency to entertain his classmates with smart hyperbole, 
and to the clarity of narrative there had been added a calm, 
worldly discernment. 

The edge of the full moon showed above the hill to the 
east. To our right was a grassy bank. "Let's sit down," Bill 
said. "Did I ever tell you about Sepi Jingan?" 

"Like to hear it," I replied. 

"You remember Paul Black Bird?" 

"The new fellow who got drunk last fourth of July and 
went to sleep on the Pere Marquette tracks?" 

"Yes. He was a bad Indian. Up on the upper peninsula 
he couldn't get drunk. He used to drink all day every- 
thing. But he couldn't get drunk. Then he would go crazy; 
but he wasn't drunk. He was crazy because he couldn't get 

The knowledgeability took various forms, as has the 
knowledgeability of his mature work. It was not always as 
adult as the mature estimate of Paul Black Bird's misery. 
Occasionally Hemingway was content to mine only slap- 
stick from this capacity for understanding. One of Miss 


Dixon's annual assignments to her upperclassmen, for ex- 
ample, was the composition of a ballad. Hemingway's pre- 
cocious handling of this exercise was printed in that same 
November, 1916 issue of the Tabula. 10 It was an ancient 
device whose entire forty-eight lines consisted of varia- 
tions on the author's query as to what he should write about 
and how he should rhyme it. The first stanza stated the 
approach and content of the other five. 

Oh, I've never writ a ballad 
And Fd rather eat shrimp salad, 
(Tho' the Lord knows how I hate the 
Pink and Scrunchy little beasts), 
But Miss Dixon says I gotto 
(And I pretty near forgotto) 
But I'm sitting at my table 
And my feet are pointing east. 

The whole lively jest, "How Ballad Writing Affects Our 
Seniors," indicated something more than confident charm 
and an affection for Kipling. There was a glossy finish that 
was alien to the solemnity of the Tabula; even the HE-SHE 
jokes in the SMILES department, where the ballad was 
printed, were heavy by comparison. The technical dex- 
terity, unremarkable in any large sense, was impressive in 
a high school student. It was a variation of the increasing 
sophistication which had encouraged him to attempt the 
paradox of "Sepi Jingan." 

Hemingway confirmed this sleek facility with several 
other poems during his senior year. His range extended 
from a neat burlesque of James Whitcomb Riley through 
solemn lines about the moral superiority of a Great Lakes 
stoker to his effete passengers. 11 He also collaborated with 
his friend and teammate, Fred Wilcoxen, in some impres- 
sionistic, Sandburg-like free verse about a football game. 12 


The heroic aura of "Athletic Verse" must have been largely 
the contribution of Wilcoxen, the star athlete of the Class of 
1917, a three-letter man who had been on varsity squads 
as early as his sophomore year. Football for Hemingway 
had been largely an unavoidable chore. "Football," he ex- 
plained later, talking about the experiences which had been 
helpful in learning to write, "I knew too much about and 
it did not interest me really and I have never written a line 
about it." 13 

Ironically, however, Hemingway's senior year was spent 
in the creatively unfruitful competitions as opposed to 
boxing or fishing of high school sport. He not only played 
varsity football all that fall, but even in his writing he was 
for a time restricted to sports material for the weekly news- 
paper. It was in the Trapeze, in fact, rather than the Tabula, 
that Hemingway's apprenticeship really began. Journalism 
would be the basic ingredient of his formal training, at least 
until 1922, and his vocation from 1920 until 1924. His news- 
paper career was thrust upon him in Oak Park in the winter 
of 1916, when he was sixteen. 


Between January, 1916 and May, 1917, Hemingway's 
by-line usually Ernest M. Hemingway, as it remained 
throughout his newspaper work appeared more than thirty 
times in the Trapeze. The Trapeze, a characteristic second- 
ary school paper, was in no way more typical than in the 
emphatic prominence it gave to sports coverage. Heming- 
way's assignment to the varsity contests thus certified him 
as an acceptable reporter in the estimation of the editors and 
their faculty adviser. The latter, indeed, subsequently de- 
clared that by the end of his junior year Hemingway "was 
recognized as the best writer on the staff." 

It was to Arthur Bobbitt, in fact, that Hemingway owed 


his initial push into journalism. In 1916, when the history 
teacher was first appointed its sponsor, the Trapeze was 
being published irregularly. It was largely the preserve of 
one or two students. Bobbitt reorganized it as a weekly, 
with a fixed publication schedule and a conventional stu- 
dent hierarchy of editors, business staff, and reporters. 
Bobbitt vividly recalled the occasion when he recruited 
Hemingway; he told the story many times to colleagues 
and students. His classmates, Bobbitt suggested to Heming- 
way one day in study hall, had often spoken about his writ- 
ing ability, Hemingway replied that he didn't want to write 
for the paper. "I'm not interested in writing," he said. 

It was the same synthetic resistance which a few weeks 
later caused Hemingway's reluctance to publish his fiction, 
requiring the intercession of Mr. Platt and Miss Dixon be- 
fore "Judgment of Manitou" was submitted to the Tabula. 
"No, I don't want to," he repeated to Bobbitt, but he got 
the article in by the deadline, and though Bobbitt had to 
repeat his arguments for the next issue, Hemingway, the 
adviser recalled, "soon became an enthusiastic reporter." 

The material Hemingway wrote for the Trapeze in the 
winter and spring of 1916 was competent but in no way 
exceptional. There were several others on the staff who 
seem by their work to have been as able reporters as he; 
one of his contemporaries, in fact, maintained later that "it 
seems strange now, but most of us thought he wrote very 
indifferently." In reality the quality of Hemingway's early 
reportage was a compromise between the retrospective en- 
thusiasm of Mr. Bobbitt and the skepticism of the classmate. 
He wrote seven by-lined articles that first year, and was 
sufficiently capable, and interested, so that when the staff 
was chosen for senior year he was named as one of the six 

Hemingway was even more productive as an editor than 
as a reporter. He wrote twenty-four stories between No- 


vember, 1916 and May, 1917. There was scarcely an issue 
during that period in which his by-line did not appear at 
least once; several times he had as many as three articles in 
a single number. The stories were usually five or six hun- 
dred words long. Although Hemingway was functioning 
as a reporter rather than a columnist, he could not always 
maintain the objectivity of conventional reportage. "As 
usual," he noted bitterly in a description of a one-sided loss 
by the home team, "Oak Park was without the services of 
their constantly ineligible stars and Standish joined the miss- 
ing pair due to parental objection to his swimming." 14 

Such cditorialization would have been red-penciled by 
Mr. Bobbitt, who supervised the paper very closely. Bob- 
bitt, however, as of the issue of December 22, 1916, had 
delegated faculty sponsorship of the Trapeze to a young 
instructor named John Gehlmann. Like his superior, the 
new adviser had no professional newspaper background, 
but he was a perceptive, energetic man who encouraged 
every reasonable form of student initiative. Gehlmann was 
at times a particular ally of Hemingway, for the latter soon 
grew restless under the drab bondage of sports writing; on 
his own Hemingway launched what was by far the signifi- 
cant enterprise, either journalistic or creative, of his high 
school writing. 


In 1917 Ring Lardner was probably the contemporary 
writer most widely read in the Chicago area. His column 
in the Chicago Tribune was one of the municipal glories, 
revered by subscribers of all ages. Hemingway's contem- 
poraries testify to their own excitement when they en- 
countered Lardner. For many of them he was the first 
contemporary writer they read. "In the Wake of the News" 
was an intoxicating diet after the required staples of late 


Victorian literature. Hemingway's own response to Lardner 
was instantaneous. He documented his homage with a series 
of Trapeze adaptations. 

The most impressive aspect of Hemingway's use of the 
Tribune columnist as a model was the imaginative way in 
which he transferred the latter 's techniques into a high 
school framework. The boy's work ultimately became more 
than an imitation; it was original as well as derivative. Dur- 
ing the winter of his senior year Hemingway made four 
awkward, repetitive experiments; by the spring he was 
using the form with confidence and success. He was no 
longer content simply to replace Lardner's situations and 
characters with high school facsimiles. He used instead a 
Lardnerian treatment of authentic high school material. In 
a column of May 4, 1917, addressed to "Dear Marce" 
his sister Marcelline was editor that week he demonstrated 
the authenticity of his adaptation. The paragraph was an 
effective parody of adolescent conversation and attitudes. 

Say, Marcelline, did you know that there is 5 pairs of 
brothers and sisters in school and invariabsolutely it is a 
strange coincidence that the sister is good looking and the 
brother is not? Schwabs, Shepherds, Condrons, Krafts and 
Hemingways, is it not most peculair that except in one 
family the sister is awful lot better looking than the brother. 
But we are too modest to say which family is the exception. 
Huh? Marcc? 15 

Hemingway also understood the Lardner device of self- 
derision. "The Trapeze is short of stuff," he wrote, a para- 
graph or two later, "and so don't get sore if I string this 
out because anyway you should give me lots of space be- 
cause we are sisters and brothers." The basic structure of 
the entire treatment, in fact, indicated a comprehensive 
grasp of Lardner's principal effects, confirming Mr. Bob- 


bitt's subsequent statement that Hemingway "took articles 
from the Chicago papers and studied them carefully." The 
young satirist completed the seven hundred word column 
it was called "Ring Lardner Returns" with a sly gibe 
at Oak Park conservatism, which he had already mocked 
in paragraphs about smoking and gambling. 

Well, Marce, I had better quit now but if you and Mr. 
Gchlmann let this go thru you will be glad because think 
of the joy it may bring to some suffering heart, 



In fairness to Gehlmann, this derision should have been 
directed not at him but at the superintendent, the late 
M. R. McDaniel. The latter frequently chided the young 
faculty sponsor about Hemingway's columns. "I was always 
having to fight criticism by the superintendent," Gehlmann 
once said, "that Ernie was writing like Ring Lardner and 
consequently a lost soul!" McDaniel remained unimpressed 
by Hemingway's mature work. Ultimately the Trapeze 
material of Hemingway's adolescence became one of Mc- 
Daniel's favorite jests; he was fond of reminding Gehlmann 
that Hemingway got his start under the history instructor's 
sponsorship. "He held me responsible for the malodorous 
writings from Ernie's pen," Gehlmann remembered. 

Official opposition, even as mild as Superintendent 
McDaniel's, had a predictable effect on Hemingway. He 
was back in strength in the next issue. This time, however, 
he gave his column a new title. "SOME SPACE FILLED BY 
ERNEST MACNAMARA HEMINGWAY," it read, with an ironic 
subheading: "Ring Lardner Has Objected to the Use of 
His Name." 16 The approach of graduation, as well as the 
superintendent's distaste, seemed to furnish Hemingway a 
heightened creative momentum, for the bulk of his Lardner 


material was written in the last weeks of his senior year. 
He published another of his columns in the issue of May 
25. 17 The tone of the article, a series of personal paragraphs, 
was explicitly in the pattern of his previous satires. Heming- 
way bowed out of Oak Park in the role of professional 

"Mr. Dale Bumstead," he began, "gives a dinner dance 
tomorrow night at the Country Club. Messers Morris 
Musselman, Fred Wilcoxen, Ernest Hemingway, Abraham 
Lincoln and General Joffre will not be among those pres- 
ent, all having perfect alibis." Hemingway also returned to 
the locally profane topic of gambling. "Several members of 
the Trap Shooting Club," he declared, "are exhibiting pieces 
of silver ware of the Ohlsens' home as trophies of the meet- 
ing held there Saturday night. The silver ware is always 
the last stakes that Ray puts up." He violated, with relish, 
the Oak Park mores on drinking. "A new party enters the 
race next fall in the person of the anti-prohibition party. 
Its leaders, led by Tom Cusack, nominated the modest edi- 
tor of these columns and announced their slogan as 'Hem- 
ingway and a full Stein!' " 

Hemingway's valediction was thus an amiable round- 
house swing at faculty, community, and classmates, not the 
less pointed for its amiability. The junior class paid tribute 
to him in the first editorial of their Trapeze tenure, citing 
"the humor of Airline [Morris Musselman's column] and 
Ring Lardner" as having given "more pep to the issues." 18 
Even an unliterary classmate who deplored Hemingway's 
subsequent career conceded later that "at the time we were 
in high school, Ring Lardner was in his prime and Ernie 
ran a column in the Trapeze imitating Lardner and it was 
quite good." 

Hemingway's work for the Trapeze had an importance 
far larger than the recognition it brought from his contem- 
poraries. It provided him with a personal direction. Mr. 


Bobbitt felt with justice that the Trapeze experience was 
"the opening wedge for the newspaper experience which 
Ernest went into immediately upon graduation." Had he 
attended the University of Illinois, as he indicated to his 
classmates that he would, Hemingway planned to major in 
journalism. 19 He had found in the high school newspaper 
experience, and particularly in the freedoms of a column, 
at least the beginnings of a tangible objective. He wrote 
approximately fifteen thousand words, and once a week he 
sat with the other five editors and read and edited the work 
of the reporters. He was chosen to write the Class Prophecy, 
and his treatment of the assignment was characteristic of 
his Trapeze columns; he created an elaborate melodrama, 
with a martial setting, in which he cast his classmates in roles 
precisely the reverse of their temperaments. 20 

His careful adaptations of Lardner had been an invaluable 
opening exercise in some of the technicalities of idiomatic 
prose, as well as a profitable experiment in various levels of 
humor, burlesque, and satire. Years afterwards, at Lardner's 
request, Hemingway autographed a book for him, inscrib- 
ing it "To Ring Lardner from his early imitator and al- 
ways admirer, Ernest Hemingway." 21 Hemingway outgrew 
Lardner, as he has outgrown most of his models and tutors. 
Like the Trapeze, however, Lardner was an important agent 
in the establishment of direction. "There was plenty to 
admire," Hemingway said later of Lardner's work. 22 

In June, 1917, following his graduation from high school, 
the Trapeze and Lardner and writing as a whole were put 
aside for the annually welcome escape to the Hemingway 
summer home in northern Michigan. Here, in the immense 
delights of fishing and camping and a masculine world, 
with a group of friends more important to him than his 
high school associations, Hemingway extended each summer 
another element of his apprenticeship. It was an element 
whose importance does not become wholly apparent until 


1920, when he used this Michigan material in his free-lance 
work for the Toronto Star Weekly. The summer of 1917, 
however, was a difficult one for any eighteen-year-old 
American as aggressive and restless as Hemingway. For 
such a boy the events in Europe marched their distracting 
shadows across even the woods of Michigan. 



"... in Kansas City he really began 

Hemingway's restlessness became more acute with each 
week that passed in the summer of 1917. The war, and his 
father's unalterable opposition to his enlistment "the boy's 
too young," the doctor had said, and there the discussion 
ended made his situation intolerable. He talked about get- 
ting away for good, and about making his way in the world, 
and it was finally agreed that in the fall he should go to 
Kansas City and get a job. Kansas City had several things 
to recommend it. 

Carl Edgar, a Horton Bay friend, would be there, work- 
ing for a fuel oil company, and though Edgar himself was 
also very anxious to get into the war, he was at least an 
older man, mature and conscientious. Doctor Hemingway 
hoped that he would have a steadying influence on his son. 
Hemingway himself had crossed over to Edgar's Pine Lake 
cottage almost every day during the early summer. He 
observed with envy his friend's prosperity and independ- 
ence. In July, just before Edgar went back to Kansas City 
at the end of his vacation, Hemingway told him he would 
definitely be there in the fall. Edgar was delighted with the 
plan. To someone of his own tastes the boy's ingenuousness 
and, Edgar once explained, his enthusiasm for "fishing and 


the out of doors in general," were appealing characteristics. 

In Kansas City, too, lived Doctor Hemingway's younger 
brother, Tyler Hemingway, a successful, socially promi- 
nent businessman. Tyler Hemingway could not only pro- 
vide a local regency of family supervision, but he would 
also be able to find his nephew a newspaper job; he had 
been a classmate at Oberlin of the late Henry J. Haskell, 
then chief editorial writer of the Kansas City Star and for 
some years its Washington correspondent. 2 "I wanted to 
work on the Star" Hemingway declared flatly many years 
later, "because I thought it was the best paper in the U.S." 
Few of the Star's readers, and not many informed Amer- 
icans, would have disagreed with him. The Kansas City 
Star was in 1917 one of the half-dozen great American 

The Star had been for almost twenty years the natural 
target of talented, ambitious Midwesterners. Through its 
city room during this period there passed a stream of young, 
obscure reporters who during the next generation would 
form a kind of self-perpetuating cadre in the editorial rooms 
of the Hearst empire, in the Curtis publications in Phila- 
delphia, in the executive offices of other, Star-derived Mid- 
western papers, and in the writers' wings of Hollywood 
studios. Innumerable smooth, professional storytellers served 
their apprenticeships under the stern discipline of William 
Rockhill Nelson, his lieutenants, and his professional heirs. 

Like the revered New York World, with which it was 
often compared, the Star infected its staff with a curiosity 
about mankind and a craftsmanlike regard for clear, pro- 
vocative, good as opposed to "fine" writing. Unlike the 
World, which preferred to hire reporters of proven quality, 
the Star insisted when possible on training its own men. The 
late Courtney Ryley Cooper, gossiping about his own Star 
days, recalled that the invention of a mythical background 
of experience had not helped his application for a job on 


the paper. "Young man," the assistant editor told him, 
"when a man becomes a member of the staff of the Kansas 
City Star we give him his experience. We don't want men 
from big papers, and we don't want boomers who run 
around the country from one paper to another. We train 
our men, and we train them well." 3 

The atmosphere of the Star was a fresh and exciting one, 
for which nothing in Hemingway's brief high school jour- 
nalism could have prepared him. "They worked us very 
hard," Hemingway remembered thirty-five years later, "es- 
pecially Saturday nights. I liked to work hard though, and 
I liked all the special and extra work." His zeal, of course, 
would have been no surprise to his editors on the Star; it 
was what they expected to get from every young reporter 
lucky enough to work for the Star. They expected too that 
sixty-dollar-a-month cubs would quickly master the paper's 
celebrated style sheet. 

This was a long, galley-size, single page containing the 
110 rules that governed the Star's prose. It had been devel- 
oped by the man who made the Star, the legendary Colonel 
Nelson, and two of his first editors, T. W. Johnston and 
Alexander Butts. To it had been added the discoveries about 
reportorial frailty of successive Star editors. It survives to- 
day, printed now in the pamphlet form which has become 
standard practice on good newspapers; although, then as 
now, it contained the customary local prohibitions and idio- 
syncrasies of particular editors, it was in its essentials a 
remarkable document. The Star included several rules 
which went far beyond the conventional instruction in 
spelling, punctuation, and grammar. These were the rules 
which made a Star training memorable. The style sheet's 
first paragraph and it remains the initial paragraph in the 
current style book might well stand as the First Com- 
mandment in the prose creed which is today synonymous 
with the surface characteristics of Hemingway's work. 


Use short sentences. Use short first paragraphs. Use 
vigorous English. Be positive, not negative. 

Nothing Hemingway might learn in the next decade of 
apprenticeship would supplant this precept. The inevitable 
verbosity he had brought from high school theme-writing, 
despite the efforts of Miss Dixon and Miss Biggs, as well 
as the prose vices of premature independence in Trapeze 
reporting, could not survive in such an atmosphere. Rule 
1 was an edict observed with evangelical devotion by the 
Star's copyreaders and, more important, by the man who 
was most directly in contact with young reporters and their 

C. G. (Pete) Wellington was in 1917 the assistant city 
editor of the Star. He is regarded by the scores of writers 
whom he has trained as the man who was the keeper of 
the Star style sheet. He was in the direct line of descent 
from Nelson, having been hired away from the Topeka 
Capitol in 1912 by the colonel's lieutenants. In the early 
1940's, when it became necessary to expand the old style 
sheet, it was Wellington by then managing editor to 
whom the chore was automatically handed. 

For him it was no chore. Accuracy and readability were 
his twin gods. If a particular point was not covered by the 
style sheet, one could be sure in 1917 that the assistant city 
editor could supply a principle. In the hands of such a man 
patient, severe, devoted to the paper in general and to 
readable, lucid prose in particular the style sheet was never 
a rhetorical prison. It was a kind of bellows with which 
words were controlled and structured. For most of the 
Star's reporters the style sheet and its phrases remained in 
their minds long after they had left Kansas City. Heming- 
way who w r orked there for only seven months could 
recall in 1952 that "you were never to say a man was seri- 
ously injured. All injuries are serious. He was, as I recall, 


slightly injured or dangerously injured. There were many 
other things like this," he added, "that made extremely good 
sense." Hemingway then translated his memories of the 
style sheet into another idiom, giving his description the 
kind of freshness that would have pleased Wellington. 

"They gave you this to study when you went to work," 
Hemingway explained, "and after that you were just as 
responsible for having learned it as after you've had the 
articles of war read to you." 

Wellington's young reporters invariably reacted posi- 
tively to this atmosphere of diligent and thoughtful pro- 
fessionalism. If one worked even briefly in this world where 
short sentences and vigorous English were truly important 
things, then he would, fundamentally, write that way for- 
ever, just as he would always write with the emphasis on 
freshness and originality. They used to say that on the Star 
you could write a story backwards if you made it interest- 
ing enough. This becomes believable when Rule 3 of the 
style sheet is analyzed. 

Never use old slang. Such words as stunt, cut out, get his 
goat, come across, sit up and take notice, put one over, have 
no place after their use becomes common. Slang to be en- 
joyable must be fresh. 

At a time when the habits of a vocation are formed, 
Hemingway was being given the training that would make 
him so apt a pupil during the coming five or six years. 
Language and words could never from this point on be 
lightly regarded. The effort would always be toward au- 
thenticity, precision, immediacy. There was a legend on 
the Star that the city desk once accepted in a reporter's 
story the line, "He hit the girl he was engaged to's brother." 
The myth vividly indicates what was wanted by the Star 
and, above all, by assistant city editor Pete Wellington. 


Hemingway's sense of obligation to Wellington has always 
been profound, and he has recorded it scrupulously on 
several occasions. "Pete Wellington was a stern discipli- 
narian, very just and very harsh," Hemingway said once, 
"and I can never say properly how grateful I am to have 
worked under him." 

Wellington has been described by the playwright Russel 
Grouse on the Star's sports desk in 1917 and a friend of 
Hemingway there as a fine teacher because "he had the 
wonderful habit of putting his arm around you and then 
talking to you as though he was a friend instead of a boss." 
This was the man who read Hemingway's copy and dis- 
cussed it with him, whether it was merely the phoned-in 
facts of a General Hospital stabbing, or a story written by 
the boy on his return to the city room. It was the kind of 
teaching, bolstering as it did the creed of the style sheet, 
and a tradition of great Star stories and reporters of the 
past, which was invaluable. Each of the Star's rules becomes 
more meaningful to the importance of the period to Hem- 
ingway when it is thought of as being explained to the boy 
by Wellington. The assistant city editor was particularly 
insistent on the observance of Rule 2 1 : 

Avoid the use of adjectives, especially such extravagant 
ones as splendid, gorgeous, grand, magnificent, etc. 

Wellington translated this into an understandable prose 
code for his young reporters, just as, when they violated 
the Star's edict on short sentences, he would shrug and say, 
without rancor but severely, "Why the hell do you want 
to tangle your reader up? Do you like listening to someone 
who talks like that?" 4 American journalism was just emerg- 
ing from a period of heavy, turgid prose. Like the Star 
rules, Wellington's careful, frugal use of adjectives, in 


which the fresh and evocative was always sought, was evi- 
dence of the Star's creative attitude toward prose. 

"Those were the best rules I ever learned for the business 
of writing," Hemingway told a young newspaperman in 
1940. "Fve never forgotten them. No man with any talent, 
who feels and writes truly about the thing he is trying to 
say, can fail to write well if he abides by them." 5 


Hemingway scrambled eagerly through this professional 
world. Thinking back to what gave Hemingway his drive 
on the Star in 1917, Dale Wilson, a contemporary there 
who later became Sunday editor of the Milwaukee Journal, 
decided that his friend "would have been satisfied to be the 
top assignment man on the Star and merit the approval of 
Pete Wellington." The others who knew him in Kansas 
City also recalled him clearly on the basis of those seven 
months of eagerness. They remembered him in terms of his 
energy, his charm, and, above all, as someone who wouldn't 
sit still. 

"He liked action," said Pete Wellington in 1951. "When 
he was assigned to the General Hospital he had an irritating 
habit of riding off with the first ambulance to go to some 
kind of cutting scrape without letting the city desk know 
that he was leaving the post uncovered." Wellington felt 
this could be related to Hemingway's subsequent work. 
"He always wanted to be on the scene himself, and I think 
that trait has been evident in his later writings." 

Other young Star reporters of the period, most of them 
with literary ambitions of their own, were sometimes less 
tolerant of Hemingway's bustle. "When Ernest was on the 
paper here," according to Landon Laird, a Star veteran who 
today conducts its drama column, "he was always bouncing 
up to the now departed No. 4 police station at 15th and 


Walnut to ride squad cars with Officer Bauswell and others. 
Bauswell was a character, and much more productive of 
the excitement in which Ernest revelled than a city room 
possibly could be." John Selby, the novelist and editor, re- 
membered Hemingway as "forever disappearing into the 
receiving ward of the city hospital or onto the tail of an 

It took Hemingway a few weeks to maneuver that Gen- 
eral Hospital assignment, however. Until he acquired it he 
was restless and "not too satisfied," said Frances Davis, who 
shared the Federal Building beat with him before becoming 
better known as Frances Lockridge of Mr. and Mrs. North 
fame. "He wanted to ride ambulances." When he got the 
assignment it meant he had survived the Star's thirty-day 
trial period; he was no longer on probation. His new beat 
was not by any means a sinecure. "You had to be pretty 
fair to get away with it," according to Clifford Knight, 
who covered the General Hospital himself and then made 
the familiar Star transition into a successful novelist. Hem- 
ingway was now a reporter. Russel Grouse, not given to 
exaggeration, later declared that he was "a good reporter." 

"I covered the short-stop run," Hemingway said in 1952, 
"which included the 15th Street police station, the Union 
Station and the General Hospital." Hemingway remem- 
bered the small details of his daily routine. "At the 15th 
Street station you covered crime, usually small, but you 
never knew when you might hit something larger. Union 
Station was everybody going in and out of town . . . some 
shady characters I got to know, and interviews with celeb- 
rities going through." The third area of his beat was the 
one where he found most of his action. "The General Hos- 
pital was up a long hill from the Union Station and there 
you got accidents and a double check on crimes of vio- 
lence." On another occasion, more than twenty years after 
he left the Star, even his senses could respond to a discussion 


of the paper, and he talked to an interviewer about how 
"when the fog came in the fall, you could see Hospital hill 
pushing up, almost smelling its antiseptic concord of 
odors/' 6 

Wellington, who saw Hemingway at least briefly during 
almost every day of his seven months on the paper, remem- 
bered him personally and as an attentive pupil. "He was a 
big, good-natured boy with a ready smile," Wellington 
said years later, "and he developed a friendship with all 
those on the staff with whom he came in contact." Wilson 
Hicks, a contemporary who became a national magazine 
editor, remembered their Kansas City cub days as both 
industrious and buoyant. "Ernest was conscientious about 
his work," Hicks declared, "but he would also come back 
from a story laughing about the people involved, and char- 
acterizing them in ways he couldn't write in the paper." 

It was Carl Edgar, his friend from Horton Bay, who was 
most thoroughly exposed to Hemingway's enthusiasm. 
Hemingway had found his uncle's Warwick Boulevard 
home too reminiscent of Oak Park; after a few days he 
accepted Edgar's offer to share his small apartment. The 
older man usually worked late, and since Hemingway had 
to be at the Star each morning by eight o'clock, they saw 
each other only at night, when they would meet at the 
rooms on Agnes Street and discuss the day's affairs. "Hem- 
ingway felt the charm and romance of newspaper work 
fully," Edgar conceded later. "He would talk for hours 
about his work, frequently when it would have been better 
to go to bed." Edgar also sensed that Hemingway con- 
sidered the job essentially as a means to an end. "I believe 
that the writing itself interested him principally," Edgar 
maintained. This was also Wellington's analysis, and the 
assistant city editor often heard from Hemingway the dra- 
matic promise, not unique in a city room, that "he would 
write the great American novel." 


The Star's milieu, in fact, was one in which only the most 
perverse of young men could have ignored the writing of 
fiction. "Every newspaperman I knew," Russel Grouse re- 
called, "was secretly working on a novel." On the Star, too, 
there was a factor which did not operate on many papers. 
This was the famous institution inaugurated by Colonel 
Nelson and known as either the exchange or the literary 
department. Nelson had insisted that considerable space be 
given in the Star to reprints of modern and classical liter- 
ature, and to masterpieces of art. The literary department 
clipped magazines, quoted from new books and old, and 
ransacked American and foreign newspapers for material 
that would both interest and elevate subscribers to the 

A young man who worked on the Star learned to write 
declarative sentences, and to avoid hackneyed adjectives, 
and to tell an interesting narrative; and, because of the 
literary department, he learned to do these things in a school 
which was interested in a more complex aspect of writing 
than the mere coverage of the day's events. "The editorial 
room of the Star" said Clifford Knight, the detective story 
writer who worked for the Star for more than ten years, 
both before and after Hemingway's tenure there, "was 
something more than just another newspaper. There was an 
atmosphere there that was unique." In 1952 it was still 
vivid in his mind. "There were good men there in the top 
spots, as good as there were in the business, and after the 
paper went to press and things slacked off, you could go 
and talk to almost anybody; you could dream dreams and 
talk about the novel you were going to write some day." 

Literary critics have sometimes patronized Hemingway 
as the victim of an abbreviated and inadequate education. 
On the contrary, in addition to the admirable instruction 
given at Oak Park High, he was the recipient of an ex- 
tremely literate and concentrated training, general as well 


as vocational, on the Star. It was an education to which, 
like any young man, he would be more attentive than he 
would have been to similar instruction at, say, the Univer- 
sity of Illinois. 'The Star" according to Clifford Knight, 
who grew up in its circulation belt before he joined its 
staff, "was a cultural bath." It served this function both for 
those who read it and for those who wrote it. 

No matter how single-mindedly he pursued ambulances, 
a young man could not be unaffected by such an atmo- 
sphere. This was not the dipsomaniacal city room that 
Hollywood invented, nor was it the monotony which is 
frequently the American newspaper of reality. "It was 
literate and alert," John Selby testified in 1952. "People did 
read, not only the current stuff, but generally. The shop 
bristled with novels being written." 

It would be naive to imagine, however, that Hemingway 
spent all his time in the literary department. He was already 
doubtful of whatever was not experienced. The exchange 
department, had he thought consciously about it, would 
have seemed to a degree a quaint make-believe. Hemingway 
belonged only occasionally to the group which discussed 
literature and art in reverent, almost academic terms. Al- 
though some of his friends were among those who gathered 
regularly with John Patrick Gilday and the older men from 
the literary department, and though he himself was respon- 
sively interested in fiction of all kinds, Hemingway, when 
the paper was put to bed, turned to a spokesman of a differ- 
ent approach to fiction. 

Lionel Calhoun Moise became a legend in American city 
rooms by the time he was thirty. 7 During the rest of his life 
the legend extended in depth of anecdote without changing 
its essential pattern. Witnesses to Aloise's career are invari- 


ably in doubt as to whether it was his talent as a writer or 
his color as a personality which contributed most strongly 
to their memory of him. 

Of his stature as a journalist they were never in doubt. 
Experienced colleagues, who had read a thousand perishable 
accounts of the day's events, always remembered one or 
two by Moise when the rest had blurred away. He had the 
kind of agile talent which once enabled him to write three 
hundred entertaining words every day for a month on the 
phenomenon of Halley's comet. He is preserved in the 
minds of his contemporaries as a symbol of a vanished 
species, the boomer, the nomad reporter who acknowledged 
no master, moving turbulently from job to job, able neither 
to write a dull story nor be a dull companion. He was 
notorious as a cop-slugger and barroom brawler, a Front 
Page character who, in Russel Grouse's memory, "was a 
good tough reporter of the old school who loved to get 
drunk and throw typewriters out the windows." 

The anecdotes about his brawls and his drinking and his 
women were legion. Defining the relationship between 
Moise and Hemingway, a contemporary concluded that if 
Hemingway had written his fiction before 1917, younger 
newspapermen in Kansas City might have described Moise 
as "like a character out of Hemingway." Hemingway re- 
membered him in 1952, the year of his death, as "a very 
picturesque, dynamic, big-hearted, hard-drinking and hard- 
fighting man," adding that he (Hemingway) had "always 
regretted that his talent was not disciplined and canalized 
into good writing." 

Moise, as Hemingway inferred by that brief epitaph, 
was more than just a dissolute, professional he-man. "If 
Hemingway learned anything on the Star" according to 
Wesley Stout, a famous Kansas City reporter who later 
became editor of the Saturday Evening Post, "it was from 
Moise, whose footsteps he dogged. Moise had many theories 


about writing, which he was not unwilling to share." Moise 
was particularly emphatic on the requirements of good 
prose. His description of his own work is an excellent indi- 
cation of what he taught Hemingway. He was fond of 
pointing out that copyreaders hated to read his stories be- 
cause he wrote transition sentences to tie each paragraph 
tightly to its predecessor. "Not," he explained to another 
of the Star cubs who always surrounded him, "these 
choppy, bastard, journalese paragraphs that can be cut out 
easily when a story had to be shortened." 

He was, for all his romanticism and his saloon gregarious- 
ness, a sharply critical man, capable of expressing his beliefs 
in pungent epigram. "It is a regrettable indication of a great 
nation's literary taste," he once said, "when it chooses a 
national anthem beginning with the words, 'Oh, say.' " His 
advice to the young reporters was always the same; it is the 
precise advice Hemingway has continued to give novices. 
Moise urged an ambitious associate to quit his job on the 
overstaffed Star and take one with the Kansas City Journal. 
"With its ridiculously small staff," he explained, "the Jour- 
nal will run you ragged with writing reams of copy and 
the only way to improve your writing is to write." 

Moise's temperament and creed had an understandable 
appeal for Hemingway. He and the older man became 
good friends. Russel Grouse told another Star associate, in 
1930, that his own most vivid recollection of Hemingway 
in Kansas City was as "a companion of dat ole davil Moise." 
From Moise and from others like him, "storybook news- 
papermen," Wilson Hicks recalled, "men like Tod Ormis- 
ton and Harry Godfrey" Hemingway received aspects of 
a set of attitudes toward experience, as well as a pattern of 
writing habits he could add to the more important ones he 
was acquiring from the Star's atmosphere in general and 
from Pete Wellington in particular. Moise was blunt and 
doctrinaire on the qualities which fiction must possess. 


"Pure objective writing," Moise often said, "is the only 
true form of storytelling." The writers he admired were 
Saint-Simon, Mark Twain, Conrad, Kipling, and Dreiser. 
"No stream of consciousness nonsense; no playing dumb 
observer one paragraph and God Almighty the next." He 
would lean forward emphatically, an impressive and per- 
suasive lecturer. "In short, no tricks." Moise, unlike others 
to whom Hemingway was temporarily indebted, neither 
envied nor belittled the younger man's success. "I have 
since heard Hemingway quoted," Moise said in 1952, in 
one of the last letters he wrote, "to the effect that this and 
other pronouncements influenced him for the good." 
Moise's ironic wit was still active. "But," he added, "he 
probably was not himself." Growing more serious, Moise 
was literate and assured in his analysis of Hemingway's 
work. "Like all real writers, Hemingway owes his well- 
deserved eminence not to any 'influence' but to his ability 
to select from a host of influences part of that little thing 
called genius." He had read Hemingway's stories with care 
and approval. " 'The Killers' is an example of pure objec- 
tivity; dialogue, action, and a minimum of description." 

Moise's importance to Hemingway, though by no means 
as lasting and crucial as Pete Wellington's, was sharp and 
direct. Almost half a century after he broke in Moise as a 
green cub on the Star, Marvin Creager, his first city editor, 
remembered that even then Moise had "a flair for the intel- 
lectual and a thirst for knowledge." Creager, who subse- 
quently became editor of the Milwaukee Journal and made 
it one of the great Midwestern dailies, remembered too that 
Moise read widely and "understandingly." He could con- 
centrate on "things that most cub reporters would find 
heavy going." As a combination of tutors Wellington and 
Moise complemented each other in a way that would have 
been hard to duplicate. Their mutual concern with Hem- 
ingway the one's official and stern, the other's friendly 


and convivial made the Star another profitable step in ap- 
prenticeship. Wellington was a natural teacher to whom 
the entire staff looked for guidance and praise; Moise, as 
a contemporary remembered him, was "the idol of all the 
cubs." It was a formidable piece of good fortune; Heming- 
way, above all, was an apt and industrious pupil. 


One of Wellington's clearest memories of Hemingway 
on the Star was that he took "great pains" with his work. 
Wellington recalled specifically that he labored carefully 
in fashioning "even the one-paragraph news story." Here 
again the Star offered a discipline not characteristic of 
American papers. Its treatment of news stories lent itself 
to a prose exercise of which Hemingway, determined as he 
was to learn to write, was in desperate need. 

Every page of the Star including the front page was 
jammed with stories. Page one, with its unorthodox seven 
columns, seldom contained in 1917 and 1918 more than 
three or four long stories. The rest of the page was filled 
with as many as twenty-five items of one or two para- 
graphs. They might be of state, national, or international 
origin, but as a rule most of them were locally derived and 
written by any one of the staff reporters. These were 
the one-paragraph stories over which Wellington recalled 
Hemingway toiling. They demonstrate the paper's crisp, 
declarative style as well as its stress on the colloquial. They 
show Wellington's insistence that narrative be clear and 
interesting and precise. In 1940, just after the publication 
of For Whom the Bell Tolls, Hemingway told an inter- 
viewer that during his seven months on the Star he was 
trying to tell simple things simply. He remembered that he 
had been "enormously excited under Pete Wellington's 
guidance to learn that the English language yields to sim- 


plicity through brevity." 8 Hemingway was especially in- 
debted, he declared, to Wellington's concept of flexible 
narrative rather than the rigidly inverted, conventional news 
story, with its artificial dogma of lead, secondary lead, and 
key qualification points. In some ways as indicated in this 
front page story of March, 1918, typical of the kind over 
which Hemingway labored the Star was training its staff 
in narrative as much as in reportage. 

A well dressed young woman entered the jewelry divi- 
sion of the welfare loan agency yesterday. She presented 
a worn pawn ticket. It was for a wedding ring pawned nine 
months before. 

"I never intended to come back for that," she said. "I 
didn't wear it and it always seemed just an expression of 
sentiment and I believed I was an unsentimental woman. 
But my husband was drafted and I thought I'd like to have 
the ring to remember him by in case he never comes 
home." 9 

The most rudimentary extension would alter this kind 
of Star paragraph into the fragmentary sketches Heming- 
way was producing five years later in such work as "A 
Very Short Story" and "The Revolutionist." 10 The Star 
stressed reader interest far more than it emphasized the 
traditional and confining who, what, where, and when 
of conventional journalism. The city desk also encouraged 
the use of dialogue, and insisted that the speech have authen- 
ticity and crispness. The news section carried at this time, 
for example and presented as a straight news story an 
account of the trial of a Negro woman accused of operating 
a confidence game. Having explained briefly that the pris- 
oner specialized in love-crossed matrons, the Star's reporter 
focused on the central character. 


"Fse Alicka, the Wonder Woman," she told her clients. 
"Tell your fortune, bring back your lovers, fix everything 
up, all for a quarter. Cross my palm, lady; cross my palm." 11 

Alicka swindled the woman out of not only her quarter 
but also a considerable amount of jewelry. Greedy at the 
spectacle of this easy victim, Alicka returned later and was 
apprehended by a policeman. The latter accused her bluntly 
of theft. 

"You're right, copper," Alicka answered. "Take me 
along. You fool men all time butting in and spoiling every- 

She pleaded guilty and was fined fifty dollars; dispatched 
to the state farm for female offenders, she said to the judge, 
according to the Star's story: "That ain't so bad. I'll charm 
them fool niggers at the farm. Watch Alicka." 

Frequently the now characteristic, undercut Heming- 
way climax, full of unstated, ironic implications, was 
coupled in these Star paragraphs with the blunt, declara- 
tive idiom on which Wellington insisted. 

A warrant charging Joseph C. Wirthman, who owns 
several drug stores in Kansas City, with selling liquor with- 
out a license was issued by the prosecutor today. The 
complaint was made by George Herne, representative of 
the Society for Suppression of Commercialized Vice. 

Wirthman was arrested and pleaded not guilty. He 
waived preliminary hearing and trial was set for August 
13 before Judge Ralph S. Latshaw. He was released on 
$500 bond signed by his attorney. 

Herne said he bought a 25-cent bottle of whiskey in 
Wirthman's store at Thirty-first Street and Troost Avenue 
July 1. Herne complained to Shannon C. Douglas, assistant 


prosecutor, that several men, whom he recognized as Sec- 
ond Ward politicians, followed him to the Criminal Court 
Building today and threatened him. Wirthman is a former 
alderman. 12 

When Hemingway was preparing himself intensely at 
the end of his apprenticeship for the heavier burden ot 
full-length fiction, he conceived the exercises which were 
eventually published as a group in the expatriate volume, 
in our time, in 1924. The relationship is explicit between 
these important creative experiments and the short news 
paragraphs Hemingway wrote for Pete Wellington in 1917 
and 1918. In 1924, in fact, Hemingway went back to his 
Star instruction not only for the method but also on two 
occasions for the material itself. Save for the minor licenses 
permitted a fictionalist, they might be the very items 
known on some American papers as brighteners which 
daily enlivened the Star. They contain all the characteristics 
Pete Wellington valued, sharpened now by the five years 
of Hemingway's subsequent apprenticeship. Hemingway 
had retained the entire technique of the Star, even to the 
idiosyncrasies of spelling and the terminology of streets 
and precinct. 

At two o'clock in the morning two Hungarians got into 
a cigar store at Fifteenth Street and Grand Avenue. Drev- 
itts and Boyle drove up from the Fifteenth Street police 
station in a Ford. The Hungarians were backing their 
wagon out an alley. Boyle shot one off the seat of the 
wagon and one out of the wagon box. Drevitts got fright- 
ened when he found they were both dead. Hell Jimmy, he 
said, you oughtn't to have done it. There's liable to be a 
hell of a lot of trouble. 13 

In the second 1924 exercise based on Star material and 
methodology, Hemingway described the old Jackson 


County jail at Missouri Avenue and Oak Street. William 
Moorhead, the Star's police reporter for forty years, who 
took Hemingway with him on a number of assignments in 
1918, found Hemingway's picture "an accurate description 
of the dismal, massive brick building." Hemingway several 
times mentioned to friends a Kansas City criminal with the 
same name as the central figure of this hanging scene. "They 
hanged Sam Cardinella at six o'clock in the morning in the 
corridor of the county jail," Hemingway began the 1924 
sketch. 14 The abrupt exposition was only one of several 
stylistic reminders of Wellington's teaching. 

Even during his brief seven months on the Star Heming- 
way wrote a number of stories which startled his associates 
by their effectiveness and maturity. As was always the 
practice, such successes were an occasion for general con- 
gratulation; it was the cherished compensation for the low 
salaries and rare by-lines. Hemingway received the acco- 
lade several times, in particular for a story which he him- 
self remembered, many years later, as "very sad, about a 
whore." It was a simple vignette of a shabby girl who 
walked back and forth, weeping, outside a soldiers' dance 
sponsored by a socially prominent local organization. The 
girl intently watched a particular soldier as he danced with 
his smartly dressed partners. Hemingway's exposition was 
wholly implicit; he avoided both sentimentality and cheap- 
ness. The treatment was instinctive anticipation of one of 
the strengths of his later work. The story impressed George 
Longan, the city editor, as much as it did Wellington. There 
were enthusiastic prophecies about the eighteen-year-old 
boy's journalistic future. 

Hemingway himself had a more realistic, vocational mem- 
ory of the story. "It was around then they decided maybe 
I should be allowed to write occasionally as well as tele- 
phone." The incident increased both his stature on the 
paper and his conviction that he could write well if he 


worked hard enough at it. He became a close friend of the 
assignment editor of the Star's morning edition, the Times, 
and when he finished his own assignments he would cover 
stories for Charlie Hopkins. Hopkins was always short- 
handed; he made the most of such a windfall. He became 
very fond of Hemingway, and about this time had a long 
talk with the boy concerning his future. When Heming- 
way was back in Oak Park in May, 1918, he told Fannie 
Biggs a little bit about that conversation with Hopkins. 
"Don't let anyone ever say that you were taught writing," 
Hopkins had told him. "It was born in you." 

It was a pleasant thing to hear, of course, but Heming- 
way was already too sophisticated in his trade to really be- 
lieve it. He had been taught a great deal at the Star. Now 
he was ready to move on to another lesson. The war was 
still very much on his mind. Although he had been turned 
down twelve times by the medical examiners of various 
units, he suddenly got the break he had been hoping for. 


It was another Star friendship which led Hemingway 
into the war. Ted Brumback was the son of a socially 
prominent Kansas City family. An undergraduate at Cornell 
from 1913 through 1915, he had left college for a year after 
a golfing accident that cost him an eye. He returned to 
Cornell for the academic year 1916-17, but at the close of 
the spring term, in spite of his vision, he was accepted by 
the American Field Service as an ambulance driver. He was 
on active service in France from July until November of 
1917. His enlistment up, he returned to Kansas City, a 
glamorous figure who had served with the Chasseurs Al- 
pins. Brumback, with his local connections and literary 
ambitions, had no difficulty obtaining a cub reporter's job 
on the Star. Hemingway, a dynamo of furious energy at 


an office typewriter, attracted Brumback's attention on his 
first day in the city room. 

"Every tenth letter or so," Brumback wrote later, "would 
print above the type line. He didn't seem to mind. Nor did 
he mind when the two keys would jam." 15 Hemingway 
finished abruptly and called for a copy boy. He turned to 
Brumback. "That's rotten looking copy," Hemingway said. 
"When I get a little excited this damn type mill goes hay- 
wire on me." He got up and held out his hand. "My name's 
Hemingway," he told Brumback. "Ernest Hemingway. 
You're a new man, aren't you?" 

The two young men became close friends. Years later, 
in the 1930's, Brumback was traveling in California, wan- 
dering casually in a battered Ford, when he encountered 
another ex-reporter from the Star. One of the first things 
Brumback mentioned was that he had not only known the 
author of A Farewell to Arms, but had shared the same 
tent with him in Italy, and, he said, "had seen and done 
everything that Hemingway did over there." In 1936, 
when he wrote for the Star a brief memoir of his friend- 
ship with Hemingway, Brumback described him in much 
the same terms as had his other Kansas City contemporaries. 
"He was a big, handsome kid," Brumback wrote, "bubbling 
over with energy. And this energy was really remarkable. 
He could turn out more copy than any two reporters." 16 

Brumback told Hemingway, of course, about his experi- 
ences in France, and so as early as Christmas, 1917, Hem- 
ingway was talking to Carl Edgar about joining some sort 
of ambulance unit. In April the opportunity finally pre- 
sented itself. Hemingway and Brumback were able to cap- 
italize on it, appropriately, because of their connection 
with the Star. The legend was that when one day a wire 
service story came to the telegraph desk, dealing with the 
Red Cross's need for volunteers with the Italian Army, the 
two young men cabled applications before the paper used 


the item. Wilson Hicks, who had also been part of their 
plan, decided at the last moment to stay in Kansas City and 
wait for the American army. On April 30, 1918, therefore, 
Hemingway and Brumback drew their last pay from the 
Star. Together with Carl Edgar and Charlie Hopkins, the 
Times's assignment editor, they went up to northern Michi- 
gan for a final fishing trip. 

From Kansas City Hemingway took with him not only 
the lessons he had learned about writing but also a trained 
reporter's eye which would enable him to profit consider- 
ably more from his Italian experiences than if, for example, 
he had been able to enlist directly from high school the 
previous June. He took with him too a reservoir of material 
upon which he could draw when he began his serious writ- 
ing in 1919. The two harshly moving short stories, "A 
Pursuit Race" and "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen," are 
the memorable harvest of his Star assignments. 17 Prior to 
their publication in 1927 and 1933 he had written what he 
later called "some good stories about Kansas City" which 
were lost, without carbons, in the late fall of 1922. 18 Even 
in 1952, when he was asked about his memories of Kansas 
City, Hemingway was still planning to go back to the 
period for material. 

"I was always going to write about Kansas City myself," 
he said. "I know it just as it was then." Those had been 
seven lucky months in 1917 and 1918; Hemingway had 
made the most of them. He was better prepared for a part 
of his apprenticeship which would be in its way equally 
important to him. 



"It was a hell of a war as I recall. 
But a damned sight better than no war 
at all." 

Mademoiselle from Armentieres 

Hemingway and Brumback were in New York, waiting 
for a ship to Europe, by the second week of May, 1918. 
Their orders had been forwarded from Kansas City to 
Horton Bay; they left hastily for Manhattan, still wearing 
their fishing clothes. The Red Cross issued their uniforms 
on May 12 and enlisted them as honorary lieutenants. A 
week later the unit was part of a Fifth Avenue parade 
marching downtown from 82nd Street to the Battery 
and was reviewed by President and Mrs. Wilson. Heming- 
way was jubilant about finally getting into the war; Brum- 
back remembered him as "delirious with excitement." 1 

Back in Kansas City the paper had printed pictures of its 
two former reporters and a paragraph or two about their 
personal histories, declaring prematurely that the pair would 
sail that week "from an Atlantic port for Italy." 2 The 
article stressed Brumback's previous service in France and 
Hemingway's persistent campaign to deceive medical ex- 
aminers about his own imperfect eyesight. Although few 
of the new drivers had been forced to exercise Heming- 
way's tenacity of martial purpose, they were nevertheless 
an enthusiastic and enterprising group. Hemingway, at 


eighteen, was one of the youngest. In 1920, in fact, when 
he was working on a newspaper in Toronto, a Canadian 
reporter concluded that the American's exceptional matu- 
rity must have come from a wartime association with older 
men. Brumback, his closest friend in the unit, would nor- 
mally have graduated from Cornell the previous year. 
William D. Home, Jr., a young New York businessman 
with whom both Brumback and Hemingway quickly be- 
came friendly, had been a member of the Class of 1913 at 
Princeton. Most of the unit had either attended or finished 
college. Even Zalmon Simmons, Jr., an heir to the mattress 
fortune, although he was young enough to have been a 
prep school senior in 1917, had the advantage of an earlier 
enlistment in France with the American Field Service. 

The Red Cross ambulance corps in Italy was modeled on 
the American Field Service units. All the original personnel 
in Italy, for whom Hemingway's group had been signed on 
as replacements, had been recruited in Paris from men who 
had served with the Field Service ambulances in France. 
The structure and atmosphere of the American Field Serv- 
ice, with its heroic record of work with the French, dom- 
inated this new world into which Hemingway was being 
initiated. Its history clarifies the Italian milieu. 

The American Field Service and its successor, the Red 
Cross ambulance corps in which Hemingway served, testi- 
fied to the humanitarian impulse which was so strong a 
factor in American attitudes toward, and participation in, 
World War I. The impulse has been obscured by the sub- 
sequent disillusion of that generation and by the shamefaced 
skepticism with which many of them later regarded their 
youthful idealism. The novels and plays of the 1920's told 
their bitter narratives in such sardonic terms that the mem- 


ory of World War I has become an embarrassment. War- 
time slogans were soon endowed with irony as though no 
good had ever existed in them. In reality, whether they 
went overseas with such advance units as the Field Service 
and the Red Cross, or whether they enlisted in more con- 
ventional military units, the bulk of Hemingway's genera- 
tion traveled east in the crusading idealism of their Pres- 
ident. This is verified by an examination of such American 
volunteers as Hemingway and his associates and predeces- 

The volunteer organizations had from the beginning a 
strongly literary and academic background. 3 One of their 
first sponsors was Henry James. In November, 1914, Mac- 
millan published in London and sold for a penny a 
twelve-page pamphlet by the novelist called The American 
Volunteer Motor-Ambulance Corps in France. James, ad- 
dressing himself to "the editor of an American journal," 
told of the work of Richard Norton of Boston, founder of 
the corps, and appealed to other Americans for funds and 
vehicles with which to continue the work. The pamphlet 
was distinctly in the prose of James's late period. He de- 
scribed the suffering of the wounded. "Carried mostly by 
rude arts, a mercy much hindered at the best, to the shelter, 
often hastily improvised, at which first aid becomes possible 
for them, they are there, as immediately and tenderly as 
possible, stowed in our waiting or arriving Cars, each of 
which receives as large a number as may be consistent with 
the particular suffering state of the stricken individual." 

James had touched immediately on one of the basic ele- 
ments of the entire volunteer episode. It was a spirit of 
humanitarianism which moved Richard Norton and the 
several thousand who followed him during the next four 
years. These Americans were profoundly disturbed by the 
suffering of the wounded. Norton's ambulances, replacing 
the slow, springless horse-drawn wagons of the hard-pressed 


French Transport Corps, as the Red Cross would later come 
to the aid of the Italian command, were able to get the 
wounded from the first-aid stations in a matter of minutes. 
Late in 1915, though it continued to receive assistance from 
England's St. John Ambulance, Norton's unit became for- 
mally associated with the American Red Cross. They had 
carried 28,000 wounded, and, as Norton wrote to his 
brother in New York, "our cars relieved the suffering of 
over six thousand individuals between September 25 and 
October 9." When the United States declared war in April, 
1917, there were more than one hundred Red Cross am- 
bulances on the western front. 

The American Field Service, in which so many of Hem- 
ingway's fellow volunteers in Italy had served, developed 
along the same general pattern as had Norton's unit and 
the smaller, independent, Morgan-Harjes group. Section 
One of the Field Service went on duty in Alsace in April, 
1915. By 1916, at the time of the Verdun emergencies, the 
unit was operating one hundred and twenty-five ambu- 
lances, donated by American philanthropy and manned by 
American drivers. The enlistment of almost exclusively 
undergraduate or recently graduated personnel was already 
well established. Hemingway's own section in Italy con- 
tained a high proportion of college men, from institutions 
as diverse as Stanford, Princeton, Boston University, Illi- 
nois, the University of California, Dartmouth, and Pennsyl- 
vania State College. 

This was the characteristic which impressed John Mase- 
field, who was sent to France in 1917 by the British Gov- 
ernment to inspect the American volunteers. "These drivers 
are men of high education," he wrote in Harper's. "They 
are the very pick and flower of American life, some of 
them professional men, but the greater number of them 
young men on the threshold of life, lads just down from 
college or in their last student years." Membership in the 


various ambulance groups was an extension and renewal of 
high school and college, with a fraternity aspect that in- 
cluded the hazing of new men, the publication of collegiate- 
like newspapers, and the celebration at the front of Yale's 
upset victory over Harvard in 1916. The volunteers prac- 
ticed the martial truth enunciated by one of Evelyn 
Waugh's characters in 1940. "Most of war seems to consist 
of hanging about," says the young Commando officer in 
Put Out More Flags. "Let's at least hang about with our 
own friends." 

The camaraderie was intensified by the nature of the 
work and the organization of the corps. The Red Cross 
ambulance unit in Italy was divided into five sections. The 
sections were small enough less than fifty men, in the 
case of Hemingway's Section IV 4 so that real intimacy 
naturally developed. The friendship which emerged in 
Section IV between Hemingway and Bill Home remained 
an active one for many years. Several of the other drivers 
made a point of looking up Hemingway in Paris in the 
very early 1920's, long before he had become a celebrity. 
A number of the members of Section IV settled in or 
returned to Chicago after the war; although few of them 
had any direct business relations, they continued to hold 
informal Ambulance dinners for the next thirty-five years. 
Their service in Italy was not only an absorbing adven- 
ture; by and large it was one of the most memorable of 
their experiences. 

It was also difficult, responsible, and frequently danger- 
ous. The hours varied according to the particular require- 
ments of the sector. When the work was light, the shift 
was twenty-four hours on, twenty-four off. "During the 
busiest periods," according to the Red Cross's Report 
of the Department of Military Affairs in Italy, the 
work was "divided evenly between the nights and the 
days." In the case of night attack periods, of course and 


Hemingway's service coincided with the July counter- 
offensive along the lower Piave the cars were driven 
without lights. In their letters and diaries the drivers ex- 
pressed again and again their horror when at the end of 
a long drive, under shelling, they discovered they had been 
driving not an ambulance but a hearse. "These are nights 
that bear no relation to reality," one of them wrote. "Morn- 
ing comes like the relief from pain." 

Later it became fashionable to mock those writers who 
had been in the ambulance service, and to treat their over- 
seas service as a comfortable, rather ridiculous sinecure. 
"With the Ambulance Boys in France and Italy/' com- 
mentators sneered in the 1930's, reducing the experience 
to the level of juvenile tales of adventure. Some of the 
volunteers themselves took this attitude, as if ashamed of 
an ill-advised chapter of their youth. Hemingway, char- 
acteristically confident of the evidence of his own mem- 
ories of Italy, resisted belligerently the shifting climate of 
opinion in 1935. 

I thought . . . about what a great advantage an experience 
of war was to a writer. It was one of the major subjects 
and certainly one of the hardest to write truly of and those 
writers who had not seen it were always very jealous and 
tried to make it seem unimportant, or abnormal, or a dis- 
ease as a subject, while, really, it was just something quite 
irreplaceable that they had missed. 5 

Hemingway, crossing the Atlantic in late May of 1918 
to join this atmosphere of adventure and service, in which 
he would take his first lessons in war, made the most of 
whatever excitement was available. The Chicago, a vener- 
able possession of the French Line, was traveling without 


destroyer escort. Hemingway was delighted with the ru- 
mors of a U-boat operating along the American coast; he 
and Brumback stood expectantly on the blacked-out deck. 6 
Nothing happened. The Chicago was in every way a dis- 
appointment. There was little to occupy the monotonous 
trip except poker in the bar, where the game was the 
twenty-four-hour one of all troopships, or a crap game 
with allies who might cover you in French, English, Belgian, 
Italian, or American money. "Hemingway tried it," Brum- 
back wrote later, "but found he was behind, although he'd 
won." Once there was a flurry of excitement as they 
suddenly changed course. A barrel on a raft had been 
sighted; it was said to be the prelude to sinister German 
trickery. No lurking sub materialized. "Hemingway," 
Brumback said in 1936, "felt he'd been cheated." 

His disappointment was softened by their arrival in Paris 
in the midst of the first shelling of the city by Big Bertha, 
the new, long-range German gun. At the Gare du Nord 
Hemingway gave Brumback his instructions. "Tell the 
taxi," he commanded his friend, "to drive up where those 
shells are falling. We'll get a story for the Star that'll make 
their eyes pop out back in Kansas City." A heavy tip to 
the driver allowed them to begin what Brumback recalled, 
with restraint, as "one of the strangest taxi drives I shall 
probably ever experience." They spent over an hour driv- 
ing through Paris trying to catch up with the bursts. 
Finally they succeeded. "The shell hit the facade of the 
Madeleine," Brumback wrote, "chipping off a foot or so of 
stone." Perhaps by design, or perhaps merely by virtue of 
his own Star training, Brumback described the incident in 
1936 in a facsimile of Hemingway's own prose. "No one 
was hurt. We heard the projectile rush overhead. It sounded 
as if it were going to land right in the taxi with us. It was 
quite exciting." 

Paris, after they had exhausted the possibilities of Big 


Bertha, soon became as monotonous as the Chicago. "This 
is getting to be a bore," Hemingway told Brumback. "I 
wish they'd hurry and ship us off to the front." A day or 
two later, fortunately, they did leave for Italy; by the 
middle of June Hemingway was sending excited postcards 
to Kansas City. The frustrations of bogus U-boats were 
forgotten. From Milan they were hurried by truck on an 
emergency basis to a scene of complete devastation outside 
the city. "Having a wonderful time!!!" Hemingway wrote 
back to a friend on the Star. "Had my baptism of fire my 
first day here, when an entire munition plant exploded." 7 
His use of the cliche was probably in part ironic; his out- 
ward response to the catastrophe was not phrased in the 
idiom of Henry James and Richard Norton. "We carried 
them in," he went on, "like at the General Hospital, Kansas 

This was his public personality, however, the bravado his 
contemporaries had noticed in him as a reporter, and his 
antidote, as well, to the solemnity of the Red Cross atmo- 
sphere. The scene made a deep impression on him, so vivid 
that he returned to it fourteen years later in his angry, anti- 
war story, "A Natural History of the Dead." His 1932 
memory of the impressions of the 1918 scene, like his simul- 
taneous gibe at the cold, academic humanism of the period, 
was harsh and specific. "Regarding the sex of the dead," 
he wrote, "it is a fact that one becomes so accustomed to 
the sight of all the dead being men that the sight of a dead 
woman is quite shocking. I first saw inversion of the usual 
sex of the dead after the explosion of a munition factory 
which had been situated in the countryside near Milan, 
Italy. ... I remember that after we had searched quite 
thoroughly for the complete dead we collected fragments. 
. . . Many fragments we found a considerable distance away 
in the fields, they being carried farther by their own 
weight." 8 


In 1918, not yet nineteen years old, Hemingway's pri- 
mary concern was to find more of the same. "I go to the 
front tomorrow," he wrote back to Kansas City. "Oh, 
Boy!!! I'm glad I'm in it." y From Milan the entire contin- 
gent of twenty-two drivers moved on to Schio, ninety miles 
to the east, where they joined Section IV and relieved those 
men whose enlistments had expired. Once again, as with 
Big Bertha in Paris, their arrival seemed a signal for the 
unprecedented. Almost immediately, Brumback recalled, 
the Austrians violated an unwritten pledge by which each 
side had previously refrained from shelling certain towns. 
Schio had been such a town. Hemingway was as excited as 
he had been in Paris. "We set off," Brumback remembered, 
"running for the [railway] station to get there before the 
next shell arrived." The bombardment was over by the time 
they reached the target, but Hemingway consoled himself 
with the certainty of Italian revenge. "Visiting team's 
started playing dirty ball," Hemingway told his friend. 
"We'll hear from the home team on that." 

Schio itself, in addition to the charm of its lost immunity, 
had a special interest for two former reporters. Section IV, 
not content with the multitude of Red Cross bulletins issued 
in Rome, was publishing its own newspaper. The paper was 
printed once a month in nearby Vicenza, under the heartily 
macabre name, Ciao, Italian for "good-bye." Ciao's four 
pages were in format and treatment a duplication of an 
American high school paper. "All the hysterics of Section 
IV," the front page promised. 10 Its "Weather Report" was 
in the same style: "Clear: with bombing moon, possibility 
of sky becoming overcast before morning with planes, with 
resulting hail." The June issue, which contained an editorial 
urging the new drivers to "uphold the reputation of the 
Section," also asked for prose contributions from the re- 
cruits. "We know that there is talent among them." Hem- 
ingway needed no urging. The very issue which included 


the address of welcome to his group also included a story 
in the Lardnerian manner he had last used in the Trapeze 
in 1917. 

Hemingway's article "Al Receives Another Letter" 
was the longest single item in the paper. 11 Its confident 
expertness was in sharp contrast to Ciao's conventional para- 
graphs of fraternal banter and heavy, Wilsonian purpose. 
There was an illusion of effortless flow and a consistency 
of treatment that made the article superior to Hemingway's 
Oak Park columns. The story was organized with a coher- 
ence that stemmed directly from the severe city room and 
discipline of Kansas City. The material was particularly 
impressive in its display of Hemingway's precocious mastery 
of this new milieu. The paragraph exploited the familiar 
malapropisms, grammatical distortions, and personal vani- 
ties of Lardner's buffoons. These were transferred by 
Hemingway, however, with complete authenticity, from 
the world of Lardner's Jack O'Keefe and a stateside army 
camp into the new atmosphere of the Red Cross ambulance 

Well Al we are here in this old Italy and now that I am 
here I am not going to leave it. Not at all if any. And that 
is not no New Years revolution Al but the truth. Well Al 
I am now an officer and if you would meet me you have to 
salute me. What I am is a provisional acting second lieu- 
tenant without a commission but the trouble is that all the 
other fellows are too. There aint no privates in our army 
Al and the Captain is called a chef. But he don't look to me 
as tho he could cook a damn bit. And the next highest 
officer he is called a sou chef. And the reason that they call 
him that is that he is chef of the jitneys and has to cook for 
the 4ds. But he has a soft job Al because there are only one 
4d. lefts. 


Hemingway used some of the identical phrases that were 
occurring in Lardner's Saturday Evening Post satires in 1918 
Jenahvark, for example, and Gerry Baldy and he em- 
ployed the same sardonic exposure of the author of the 
letter. The story was an excellent one, about eight hundred 
words long, and as technically finished as anything Hem- 
ingway had yet written. "Do you remember that fellow 
Pease Al that I wrote you about what was our captain? 
Well he is a p.s.l.A.w.a.c. now just like the rest of us and 
he speaks to me pretty regular now and yesterday he darn 
near called me by first name. But what are we fighting for 
anyway except to make the world safe for the Democrats?" 
The satire established Hemingway firmly in the minds of 
his companions, several of whom not only recalled the 
story, many years later, but also remembered the delight 
with which he had written it. 

"Al Receives Another Letter" was the extent of Heming- 
way's published work during the war, although he persist- 
ently thought of himself as a writer, and continued to 
write a good deal during the late summer of 1918. One 
of the drivers remembered that Hemingway told him he 
would have preferred to be a war correspondent, but lacked 
the necessary experience. Bill Home, who was interested in 
Hemingway's writing from the beginning, declared later 
that Hemingway was "writing short stories" during the 
period. He remembered that "some of these were good 
stories, too," adding, quite rightly, that so far as he knew 
"none of those which I read or heard discussed was ever 
published." Home also felt that this material could not have 
been written during this period with Section IV in late 
June; Hemingway, he pointed out, "was awfully busy being 
an ambulance driver." The necessary opportunity and leis- 
ure were given Hemingway very shortly. He was seriously 
wounded on July 8, 1918, and spent the next three months 
in the American Red Cross Hospital at Milan. 



Hemingway was one of the few severe casualties among 
the American drivers in Italy. The way in which he was 
wounded was an indication both of his eagerness for action 
and his genuine desire to serve the Allied cause. Heming- 
way, according to Frederick Spiegel, another young Chi- 
cagoan with whom he shared several ambulance assign- 
ments, was "extremely conscious of the war as a 'crusade 
for democracy/ and burning with the desire to have a share 
in it." His behavior at Schio documented such testimony. 

The area to which they were assigned was enviously 
designated by the other sections as the Schio Country Club. 
They were quartered on the second floor of an abandoned 
woolen mill. In front of the mill was a flat meadow where 
the drivers played baseball. Beside the mill was the stream 
from which it had previously drawn its power. The Amer- 
icans swam and sun-bathed there. Hemingway's reaction to 
this routine, broken only by relatively uneventful ambu- 
lance runs, was a natural one. The front was near enough 
so that he was highly conscious of it, and yet for the 
moment it was as inaccessible as if he were once again 
spending the summer at Horton Bay. The Italian command 
to which Section IV was attached was apparently dug into 
the mountains for an indefinite time. There was no indica- 
tion that the Austrians would ever attempt to dislodge it. 
Hemingway, according to Brumback, was speedily "dis- 
gusted with the war." 12 He told his friend that the only 
shots being fired were practice shots. 

"I'm fed up," he said after a week of baseball and swim- 
ming. "There's nothing here but scenery and too damn 
much of that." He thought of getting out of the ambulance 
corps altogether, "to see," he told Brumback, "if I can't 
find out where the war is." If that failed, he hoped that he 
might at least be able to get transferred to a sector on the 


Piave River. "They play ball down there," Hemingway 
announced bitterly. While he waited for an opportunity to 
get in the game which Lardner's Saturday Evening Post 
busher had been calling the real worlds serious Heming- 
way had to be content with unwarlike duties in the moun- 
tains. Section IV was equipped largely with Fiats, and he 
was detailed to an Italian ambulance. Brumback drew one 
of the section's six Fords, with assignments in the flat land 
below their headquarters. "I'm in the Alps," Hemingway 
wrote back to Kansas City, making the best of a bad job, 
"riding in a Fiat." 13 

The driving itself was at first exciting and novel. For a 
time he was contained by the drama of hairpin turns banked 
by thousand-foot drops. The road from Schio up Monte 
Pasubio to the advance line dressing posts was a well-made 
one, but so narrow that the barbed wire on either side 
almost touched the fenders. High- jinks on mountain roads, 
like swimming in the mountain stream across the abyss from 
Austrian emplacements, was a sorry substitute for guns and 
action and the great crusade. Frederick Spiegel remembered 
Hemingway's discontent after ten days of idle play and 
commonplace duty. "He became increasingly itchy." 

His ultimate solution was a blend of the two alternatives 
he had discussed with Brumback. He left the ambulance 
corps, though not the Red Cross, and wangled his way 
further east to the more active Piave front. With several 
others from Section IV he volunteered for duty with the 
Red Cross Canteen. He obtained the new assignment at the 
moment when the Italians were making their counter- 
offensive all along the Piave, attempting to push the 
Austrians back across the river. "So," Brumback wrote 
later to Doctor Hemingway, "he got to see all the action 
he wanted." 14 The new job was in every way a forward 
area operation. The canteens were operated at seventeen 
points along the front, some in the mountains, some like 


Hemingway's in the plains, but none of them more than 
a few kilometers back of the trenches. 

Each canteen included two units, a small hut which 
contained both the Red Cross lieutenant's quarters and a 
supply storeroom, and a larger, adjoining hut with a kitchen 
and a large rest room for the Italian soldiers. The canteen 
served hot coffee, chocolate, jam, and soup. The soldiers 
brought their own bread. There were also rations of candy 
and tobacco. The room contained writing tables, A.R.C. 
postcards and letterheads, and reading material. The walls 
were decorated with flags and patriotic inscriptions. The 
canteen was thus a kind of soldier's club, the equivalent of 
the NAAFFs and Red Cross units of World War II, avail- 
able both to passing troops and to men from the command 
fighting in the nearby trenches. The officers allowed their 
troops to leave the trenches three or four times a week to 
come back to the canteen. Hemingway took charge of such 
a canteen in late June of 1918. 

"The work done by these officers," reported the Depart- 
ment of Military Affairs in Italy, "was of a nature which 
called upon all the resources of the versatile and adaptable 
American temperament." The canteens were frequently in 
the range of shell fire; one American lieutenant was killed 
only a few weeks before Hemingway himself was wounded. 
Several of the canteens were destroyed or damaged by 
Austrian fire. Hemingway, however, was no less restless 
than he had been in Kansas City on the Federal Building 
beat. He had not come to Italy to supervise the pouring of 
hot coffee nor the distribution of patriotic literature. He 
resumed his single-minded campaign for martial action. 

He had made friends immediately with the Italian officers 
in the trench units, and now he persuaded the local com- 
mander to allow him to come up to the trenches themselves. 
Every day thereafter Hemingway mounted his bicycle at 
the canteen and rode to the front, "laden down," Brumback 


wrote to Doctor Hemingway, "with chocolate, cigars, cig- 
arets, and postcards." 15 Brumback, who pieced together the 
story after Hemingway was wounded, also told his friend's 
father that Ernest "thought he could do more good and be 
of more service by going straight up to the trenches." 
Hemingway followed this routine for six days. He had 
achieved his goal; he was in the war. He became a familiar 
and welcome figure; the Italian soldiers were always asking 
for the giovane Americano. Hemingway threw himself into 
the front-line atmosphere with the same intensity, height- 
ened here by conviction and dedication, which he had 
shown in high school and in Kansas City. With his gifts 
for absorbing a new world he saturated himself in the 
sensations of trench life. Out of those six days, and the 
abbreviated seventh, supplemented by a few more weeks 
with the infantry in October, Hemingway would create 
during the next fifteen ye^rs not only A Farewell to Arms 
but also several fine short stories. 

Hemingway has always valued enormously his experience 
of war. Even at eighteen he sensed instinctively its potential 
utility as material and as an area for self -discipline as ob- 
server and student. His behavior during this period was 
neither ghoulish nor abnormally farsighted in terms of his 
future vocation. It was the same instinct which impelled a 
writer of another generation, in another war. "All the time 
I was overseas," Norman Mailer said shortly after the pub- 
lication of The Naked and the Dead in 1948, "I had con- 
flicting ideas, wanting, the way everybody else did, to get 
the softest job, to get by with the least pain, and also 
wanting to get into combat and see it." 16 Hemingway re- 
garded the opportunity in an even more intense way, since 
his own temperament and the general climate of feeling 
made involvement even more natural for him in Italy in 
1918 than for Mailer on Luzon in 1944. 

Hemingway was consciously shaping himself and his atti- 


tudes in 1918. "I learned about people," he said later of this 
period, "under stress and before and after it." That has been 
the fundamental theme, after all, of all his creative work. 
Six days in the heavily engaged lines along the Piave in 
July, 1918, only a few yards from the Austrian positions, 
provided an excellent basic training in stress. "Also," Hem- 
ingway added drily on that same occasion, "learned con- 
siderable about myself." Even the letters he wrote home in 
1918 showed his concentration on the reality around him 
in the trenches. His language seems stilted and familiar 
today, the phrases dulled by a thousand young men exposed 
to later twentieth-century wars, but they must have shocked 
Oak Park by their vivid enunciation of the force of his 
interest in his situation. 

You know they say there isn't anything funny about this 
war, and there isn't. I wouldn't say that it was hell, because 
that's been a bit over-worked since General Sherman's time, 
but there have been about eight times when I would have 
welcomed hell, just on a chance that it couldn't come up 
to the phase of war I was experiencing. 

For example, in the trenches, during an attack, when a 
shell makes a direct hit in a group where you're standing. 
Shells aren't bad except direct hits; you just take chances 
on the fragments of the bursts. But when there is a direct 
hit, your pals get spattered all over you; spattered is literal. 17 

His removal from this scene he had struggled so long to 
achieve was pathetic in its swift finality. He said later that 
he was already regarded by the Italians as having a charmed 
life, but at midnight on July 8, near the tiny village of 
Fossalta, two weeks before his nineteenth birthday and 
seven days after his first admission to the trenches, he was 
struck by the exploding fragments of a trench mortar which 
landed a few feet from him. He was handing out chocolate 


to the Italian soldiers. According to the legend which de- 
veloped in Section IV, however, testimony to his comrades' 
recognition of his temperament, Hemingway was said to 
have been wounded a moment after he had seized an Italian 
rifle and began firing toward the Austrian lines. An instant 
later, it was rumored, he saw an Italian sniper fall in No 
Man's Land. As Hemingway went out to bring him in, the 
shell from the mortar exploded. 

Hemingway did, in reality, show considerable heroism, 
but this came after he was wounded rather than before. An 
Italian standing between him and the explosion was killed 
instantly; a second, standing a few feet away, had both legs 
blown off. A third soldier, another of those who had been 
waiting for chocolate, was badly wounded. Hemingway, 
having regained consciousness, "picked [him] up on his 
back" and carried him to a first aid dugout. 18 The scene 
was forcefully recorded, with only minor variations, in 
A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway told Brumback he did 
not remember how he got to the dressing station, nor that 
he had carried in the soldier. An Italian officer described 
the events to him the next day. 

A few years later, when Hemingway's early fiction was 
causing certain critics to identify him as merely a callous 
recorder, Hemingway told Maxwell Perkins, his editor at 
Scribner's, that he had "not been at all hardboiled since 
July 8, 1918 on the night of which I discovered that that 
also was vanity." 19 He developed a private ritual for both 
the exorcism and utilization of his wound. One of the novels 
about war which he has always admired for its authenticity 
is Frederic Manning's The Middle Parts of Fortune. "So 
each year in July," Hemingway explained in 1942, "the 
anniversary of the month when I got the big wound, I read 
[it] and it all comes back again as though ... it were this 
morning before daylight and you were waiting there, dry- 
mouthed, for it to start." 21 


The fact of being wounded, and as seriously as he was, 
had immense psychological implications for Hemingway; 
these implications quite naturally converge on his artistic 
position and work. The wound permitted him to assume 
the role of semi-professional soldierhood at the very least, 
with the privileges and responsibilities attending that role. 
His front-line service was brief and unmartial, but the 
wound qualified him as a combat man and deepened his 
absorption in war as a temporary arena for the study of 
men and the practice of his creative energy. Because of the 
shock of the wound, and the three months of enforced 
idleness, Hemingway was able to evaluate, even if only in 
an elementary way, the experiences he had endured and 
observed. The brevity of his service, he later concluded, 
was an advantage to him as an artist. "Any experience of 
war," he said in 1952, "is invaluable to a writer. But it is 
destructive if he has too much." 

Hemingway had enough war, in the early summer of 
1918, to give him confidence in his judgments and a sound 
base for the acquisition of further experience through ob- 
servation. In the hospital at Milan he talked to men who 
had also survived the front, and one could learn from that, 
too. From a young English officer he first heard, and 
adopted as "a permanent protecting talisman," 22 the lines 
from Henry IV: "By my troth, I care not; a man can die 
but once; we owe God a death . . . and let it go which way 
it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next." Four years 
later there occurred his second major lesson in war, when 
he covered the Greco-Turk fighting as a correspondent. 
The profit he drew from the Near East campaigns was 
made possible because of his initiation in Italy. He was able 
to learn quickly and accurately in Thrace and Macedonia 
because he had been blooded at Fossalta. It is on this basis 
that World War I must be included in his literary appren- 
ticeship. Hemingway summed it up many years later. 


When you go to war as a boy you have a great illusion 
of immortality. Other people get killed; not you. . . . Then 
when you are badly wounded the first time you lose that 
illusion and you know it can happen to you. After being 
severely wounded ... I had a bad time until I figured it 
out that nothing could happen to me that had not happened 
to all men before me. Whatever I had to do men had always 
done. 23 

He paid a heavy price, as he has all his life in every area 
of experience, for his knowledge and insight. He received 
two hundred and twenty-seven separate wounds from the 
mortar and was hit simultaneously in the leg by a machine 
gun round. "My feet,'* he wrote his family from Milan, 
"felt like I had rubber boots full of water on (hot water), 
and my knee cap was acting queer. The machine gun bullet 
just felt like a sharp smack on the leg with an icy snow 
ball." 24 After he regained consciousness the second time he 
was carried three kilometers by stretcher. The road was 
being shelled, and the bearers as, again, in A Farewell to 
Arms dropped him frequently. The dressing station had 
been evacuated during the attack; he lay for two hours in 
a stable waiting for an ambulance. An Italian ambulance 
ultimately moved him to another dressing station. "I had 
a lot of pals among the medical officers," he told his family. 
Twenty-eight shell fragments were then removed from his 
legs. He drew pictures, in his letter home, to indicate to 
his family the size of the fragments. 

Hemingway spent five days in a field hospital before he 
was fit to be moved to the base hospital in Milan. He had 
another operation there, and another, and then another; he 
had a dozen operations in all. His right leg was in a plaster 
splint for some weeks. "I wouldn't really be comfortable 
now," he wrote after six weeks in the hospital, "unless I 
had some pain." 25 His closing sentences were boyishly 


ironic. "As Ma Pettingill says, 'Leave us keep the home 
fires burning/ " Brumback visited him several times, and 
reported to Doctor Hemingway that his son had stated 
with conviction that he now intended to stick to ambulance 
work. These were merely the thoughtful words of a good 
son. A few weeks after his convalescent leave ended in the 
early fall, Hemingway managed to get himself assigned 
to the Italian infantry. He served with them during October 
and until the Armistice in November. Thus, when the war 
ended, he was a bona fide fighting man. He was recom- 
mended for and received the silver medal of valor for his 
conduct at Fossalta, and because he earned the medal the 
hard way he has always had a combat soldier's sensitivity 
to both the significance and limitations of ribbons. 

Hemingway was discharged by the Red Cross on Janu- 
ary 4, 1919. A few days later he sailed for New York on 
the steamship Giuseppe Verdi. He had acquired, in addition 
to the immeasurable extension of his education, a personality 
and a role. He had been a foot soldier, the elite of fighting 
men. "That's one good thing about being an infantryman," 
he wrote in 1950 in Across the River and Into the Trees. 
"You never have any dreams except bad dreams." He would 
forever hold a blunt contempt for what he once called "the 
military politicians of the rear." His judgments about men 
at war, because of the nature of this first Italian chapter, 
would always be deeply felt and very accurate. The lugu- 
brious phrase of the period, "the baptism of fire," could be 
applied to him quite literally and with dignity. He had yet 
to discover, with veterans of every war, that one did not 
shed it when he picked up his discharge papers. 


Hemingway landed in New York on January 21, 1919. 
He immediately received at the age of nineteen the first of 


many attentions from the press. The New York Sun carried 
a five hundred word story on page eight about his war 
record and wounds. He was described as the first wounded 
American to arrive home from the Italian front, "with 
probably more scars than any other man, in or out of uni- 
form, who defied the shrapnel of the Central Powers." 
Manhattan had not yet become bored with its returning 
heroes; Hemingway's personality, as well as the fact that 
he had been "before the war a reporter for the Kansas City 
Star" made the Sun's reporter doubly responsive. Heming- 
way was also an excellent subject; the vividness of the 
story's phrases about his wounds clearly came from him. 
As for his future plans, Hemingway was thinking exclu- 
sively in terms of writing. He thought he was "qualified 
to take a job on any New York newspaper that wants a 
man that is not afraid of work and wounds." The interview 
was an indication of the sort of thing one of his friends 
referred to when he said later that Hemingway "tasted 
blood early" as far as notoriety was concerned, and that, 
leaving aside his gifts and natural capacity for success, he 
could scarcely have been expected to settle down to a con- 
ventional, Oak Park life. 

Hemingway, however, did go home to Oak Park briefly. 
His effect on the community, and on his own generation 
in particular, was spectacular. "I remember him distinctly," 
a contemporary recalled in 1940, "walking up the street in 
his blue uniform, and limping, with a cane." 26 He was 
invited to speak at the high school. In the assembly hall he 
discussed his experiences and, one of his audience later re- 
ported, "held up a pair of shrapnel-riddled trousers for the 
students to see." He told them that it was the first speech 
he had ever made, and that he intended it to be his last, but 
he discussed the war in lucid terms; one of the listeners 
maintained years later that "the repercussions in Oak Park 
to that speech are still remembered." The garments worn 


on the night of July 8th, however, were his principal props. 
Frank Platt, the head of the English Department and faculty 
sponsor of the Burke Club, as he had been during Heming- 
way's student days, brought his former pupil to a meeting 
of the club. Hemingway displayed his khaki jacket, pants, 
and shoes to the boys, enumerating his wounds, according 
to Platt, and allowing them to examine the holes for proof. 
"Hemingway limped a little," Platt recalled, "but he had 
escaped death." 

There were several things, on the other hand, which 
modified the pleasant triumph. There was another opera- 
tion on his leg, and there was the familiar disenchantment 
with suburbia. There was no G.I. Bill through which one 
could solve or delay the situation by going to college, even 
had he wanted, and he had not been able to save any money 
from the scanty Red Cross allowance. The anticlimax was 
obviously substantial. He did a good deal of restless walk- 
ing around the village, and he developed a cynical manner 
toward the girls whom he occasionally took out. He told 
an older friend one day that he was deeply in love. "A great 
temporary happiness," Hemingway explained, "has over- 
come me." There were stories about his presence in the 
Italian saloons of Chicago, and vague gossip about a party 
he went to with some ensigns from the Great Lakes Naval 
Station. Krebs, the central figure of the short story Hem- 
ingway wrote in 1924 about a veteran's homecoming, "tried 
... to keep his life from being complicated" by family pres- 
sures and obligations. Finally Krebs decided to go away 
altogether. "Still," he reflects, assessing his gains and losses, 
"none of it had touched him. He had felt sorry for his 
mother and she had made him lie. He would go to Kansas 
City and get a job and she would feel all right about it." 27 

Hemingway himself made a different, less abrupt adjust- 
ment to his rehabilitation, and one that was thoroughly 
appropriate to his personal interests and his intense desire 


to learn to write. He went up to northern Michigan and 
stayed there a long time, fishing, writing, reading. He came 
back to Chicago several times, and in the summer of 1919 
he located Ted Brumback, who was working there on the 
old Journal. "He looked the same," said Brumback, who 
had last seen him in the Milan hospital a year before, "but 
he limped." 28 Hemingway persuaded Brumback to come up 
to Michigan. At night, as they sat around the campfire after 
a trout dinner, Hemingway outlined his plans. He intended 
to get a job on a newspaper and write in his spare time. As 
soon as he could make a living from his fiction, he would 
devote all his time to it. He was buoyant and confident with 
Brumback, telling his friend that he expected to be able to 
support himself as a fiction writer after "a short time." 

Carl Edgar had also gotten home in 1919, and he visited 
Hemingway for a few days in Oak Park. Later, during the 
summer, Edgar saw a good deal of him at Horton Bay. 
Edgar was much impressed by the impact the war had so 
evidently made on Hemingway. "He came back," Edgar 
once said, "figuratively as well as literally shot to pieces." 
Edgar concluded that the intensity of Hemingway's desire 
to write was directly connected with the war. "He seemed 
to have a tremendous need to express the things that he had 
felt and seen." 

Hemingway worked hard in Michigan and stayed on 
after his own family and the rest of the summer colony had 
gone home. "I put in a fall and half [a] winter writing up 
in Petoskey, Michigan," Hemingway said many years later, 
describing the extent of the preparation which preceded 
his first expatriate publication in 1923. It was a period of 
discouraging rejection. "I worked and wrote," he said on 
another occasion, "and couldn't sell anything." The chron- 
ology of rejection which, except for his journalism, would 
continue until 1922 had begun, actually, during the war. 
From Milan Hemingway had mailed to a friend in Chicago 


a number of stories which she tried unsuccessfully to sell 
for him in the United States. 

In retrospect, however, the period he spent in northern 
Michigan in 1919 was of great profit. The area as a whole, 
as well as its associations and implications, gave Heming- 
way the material for a large part of his earliest published 
fiction. One of his first stories, "Up in Michigan," was 
drawn from it. 29 Of the fifteen stories in In Our Time, the 
collection which in 1925 brought him his first important 
critical recognition, seven stemmed directly from the penin- 
sula country he had fished and hunted since boyhood. The 
solitary weeks he spent there in 1919, coming as they did 
as an aftermath to his Italian experiences, allowed him a 
rich perspective. A number of his wartime friends came up 
to Michigan with him for short vacations that year, includ- 
ing Bill Home and several others from the ambulance corps. 
"Hemingway, to my own certain knowledge," Home said 
many years later, "never threw off his experiences in the 
war." The force of those experiences, and the fact that he 
had this northern Michigan interval in which to assess them, 
made possible the kind of strong, dimensional treatment he 
gave to Horton Bay in the early 1920's. 



"The Toronto Star laid great emphasis 
on human interest." J. H. CRANSTON* 

Horton Bay, to which Hemingway owed so much in the 
formation of his interests and attitudes, also provided him 
with the next opportunity in his literary apprenticeship. It 
was through a summer friendship in the northern Michigan 
colony that he received his introducnon to the Toronto 

The late Ralph Connable, for many years head of the 
F. W. Woolworth chain in Canada, with headquarters in 
Toronto, had a summer home in Petoskey, Michigan. He 
had come originally from Chicago, and was an old friend 
of the Hemingway family. He was particularly fond of 
Doctor Hemingway's oldest boy, who called him Uncle 
Ralph. When the young veteran was at loose ends after 
the war, spending a restless summer in Michigan in 1919, 
Connable suggested that he come up to Canada. He could 
live at the Connable home in Toronto, acting as a kind of 
tutor to their young son. This would give him plenty of 
time for his writing, or, if he preferred, Connable was sure 
he could be of help in terms of a local newspaper job. 

Such generosity was characteristic of Connable, a cheer- 
ful, gregarious man who had overcome the Canadian an- 
tagonism toward Americans. Connable was a particular 


favorite because of his legendary sense of humor; an obitu- 
ary referred to him as "one of the city's best known practical 
jokers." The Toronto Daily Star devoted most of its full- 
column notice of his death in 1939 to a chronicle of his 
most celebrated jests. He was a man of frank, open kind- 
ness, shrewd and friendly, and with the sort of tolerant 
understanding that was required by a restless, rather bitter 
young man. The whole sequence of events, both in its per- 
sonal as well as its vocational aspects, was as fortunate as 
that which had led Hemingway to Kansas City in 1917. 

His informal duties in the Connable household in the 
late fall of 1919 occupied only a part of his time and energy. 
Connable turned him over to one of his own friends, Arthur 
Donaldson, head of the Toronto Star's local display adver- 
tising. Donaldson, in turn, took Hemingway down the hall 
to the office of Gregory Clark, at that time feature editor 
of the Star Weekly. 2 Another chapter in Hemingway's ap- 
prenticeship had begun. He would be associated with the 
Star Weekly as well as its parent paper, the Daily Star 
for virtually the whole of the next four years. The Toronto 
Star Limited, the organization within which the two papers 
operated, was as appropriately suitable to Hemingway's 
training requirements at this stage as the Kansas City Star 
had been ideal as a preliminary school. The American and 
Canadian papers, indeed, were of such diverse natures that 
had his relationship with them been reversed had he gone 
to Toronto in 1917 and to Kansas City in 1920 the entire 
pattern of his apprenticeship would have been seriously 
altered and damaged. 

In Kansas City Hemingway had worked under conscien- 
tious editors who took with the greatest seriousness their 
responsibilities to the profession in general and to 


reporters in particular. Through Pete Wellington, and 
through the entire company and atmosphere of the Kansas 
City Star, Hemingway had been indoctrinated in the neces- 
sities of accuracy, in the obligations of vigorous prose, and 
in the requirements of forceful narrative. It had been a 
school with high, harsh standards, rigidly enforced. Few 
such standards existed on either of the Toronto papers 
owned by the late Joseph E. Atkinson. 

Atkinson's weekend publication, the Star Weekly, was 
in particular dedicated largely to the indiscriminate enter- 
tainment of its subscribers. It was published on Saturday, 
because of legal prohibitions against printing and selling a 
paper on the Sabbath. It included a news section that was 
necessarily sketchy, and a conventional front page cover- 
age of local, national, and international events, but its 
primary function was as a weekly magazine which Atkin- 
son hoped ultimately to distribute throughout Canada. 

The Star Weekly was the first Canadian paper to use 
American color comics. It exploited in full the reader values 
of an excellent illustrated section. It had several cartoonists, 
notably the late Jimmy Frise, who were as good as their 
metropolitan New York colleagues. More important, from 
Hemingway's point of view, the Star Weekly emphasized 
feature material on a virtually limitless range of topics 
Atkinson placed certain flexible boundaries on sex and 
blasphemy and bought most of its material, in 1920, from 
free-lance writers. The magazine also possessed an editor 
who, though he contributed nothing directly to Heming- 
way's training, was sympathetic and generous to young 
men of the American's talent and temperament. 

The late J. Herbert Cranston, editor of the Star Weekly 
in 1920 its editor, in fact, from 1911 until 1932 was a 
man of considerably more literary interests and judgment 
than his employer. Cranston's personality and values, plus 
his pressing need for inexpensive writers, made the Star 


Weekly a natural progression in Hemingway's apprentice- 
ship. All Hemingway's gifts for narrative and for ironic 
impressionism were encouraged in such surroundings and 
under such an editor. Cranston, like the harassed editors of 
all such publications, guided his staff as best he could be- 
tween the requirements of a semi-literate audience and the 
decencies of responsible writing. No one understood better 
than he the nature of the medium. 

"The Star" Cranston said many years later, just before 
his death in 1952, and long after he had been forced out of 
the editorship to make room for Hearst-like techniques he 
could not stomach, "laid great emphasis on human interest. 
It knew that the masses derived much more entertainment 
from reading of the doings and foibles of ordinary indi- 
viduals like themselves than of those in the seats of the 

Cranston was a mild, pious man. Reserved and serious, 
he was deeply committed to the personal conviction that 
through the Star Weekly he could do more than merely 
conspire in the creation of an enormous circulation. He 
hoped that in the magazine he could establish a worthy 
vehicle for young Canadian writers. There has been a very 
real hostility toward both the Star Weekly and the Daily 
Star, coming from some of those who have worked for the 
papers and from thoughtful Canadians who mistrust the 
papers' ethics. Cranston himself, both as an individual and 
as an editor, never inspired anything but good will and 
respect. "He was a lovable editor and loyal friend," accord- 
ing to one of his former contributors, "who was never 
equipped to oppose the utter ruthlessness of the men who 
successfully developed the Star's circulation." 

Cranston had none of the ascetic leadership of Pete 
Wellington. He prided himself on the temperate quality of 
his editorship. "I could not drive," he said later, analyzing 
the differences between his own editorial techniques and 


those of the men who were closer to the owner. He was 
content to function as editor in an old world, modest sense 
of the role, preferring even to buy his material through 
correspondence rather than personal contact. Cranston had, 
nevertheless, a realistic sense of the tone and treatment 
which were required for large circulation material. For a 
young writer like Hemingway, who had already learned 
the fundamentals of his trade, but needed the opportunity 
to exercise them, he could be of value simply by his recog- 
nition of work that would interest a broad audience. 

"The Star" Cranston declared in 1951, "aimed to give 
the people largely what they wanted to read rather than 
what they ought to read if they would become intelligent 
citizens." As a contributor to the Star Weekly, Hemingway 
was encouraged to nourish and enlarge his instinct for inter- 
esting material. His editor emphasized an ancient principle 
in the pursuit of their audience. "We always sought to get 
an article started with a striking anecdote," Cranston once 
explained, "which would whet the appetite of the reader 
for more. The bait offered in the first few paragraphs must 
be such as would securely hook the fish." Such principles 
were always conditioned by Cranston's deeply cherished 
hope that he could establish the Star Weekly as a magazine 
of genuine literary stature. 

It was not an easy objective, either in the light of his 
audience or of his employer's goal of dominating Canadian 
journalism. Cranston quite naturally fought a losing battle. 
His twenty-one-year tenure, however, was not a steady 
chronicle of defeat. If his editorship were graphed in points 
of partial success and total failure, in his attempt to realize 
this private ambition, the chart would show that Heming- 
way began to write for the Star Weekly at about the mo- 
ment of maximum fruition in Cranston's ideal. Between 
1920 and 1927 Cranston enjoyed his greatest freedom from 


owner and executive supervision, and with it the greatest 
success in the development of talented young writers. 

Immediately after the war, in Cranston's own memory of 
the period, he "gradually built up a fine array of staff 
writers, and added one or two outstanding staff artists." 
Shortly after Hemingway arrived in Toronto, Cranston 
probably under pressure from above also began to alter 
the editorial point of view. "We now sought," he recalled, 
"to give a larger number of entertainment features, and 
possibly fewer information articles. By that I mean humor- 
ous articles, Leacock, Lardner, and many others, some of 
them American syndicate, and encouraging humor wher- 
ever we could find it in Canada." The division between the 
Daily Star and the Star Weekly, above all, was well de- 
fined at this time. "The two papers," Cranston remembered 
nostalgically, "were almost two completely separate entities 
in the early days." 

Hemingway thus became a contributor at the instant 
when the increasing circulation made Cranston's appetite 
for young writers a sharp one, and when the new emphasis 
on humor and entertainment was still balanced in part by 
the earlier requirement of more serious treatment. There 
was a small literary renaissance in Toronto in the 1920's, 
and although the Star Weekly played no formal part in 
the movement it would be ludicrous to imagine it as an 
agent of revolt or innovation many of its writers partici- 
pated actively in the attempt to vitalize Canadian literature. 
Their more serious work was often made possible by 
Cranston's ready purchase of their journalism. This was 
Cranston's greatest contribution to Canadian letters, and 
the closest he came to the realization of his private ambi- 
tions for the Star Weekly. 

One of the men Cranston helped remembered him in 
terms which clarify the nature of the editor's role in Hem- 
ingway's apprenticeship. "Looking back," said Merrill Deni- 


son, today a writer in the field of industrial history, "I now 
realize that he must have picked men for both their writing 
skills and mental outlooks, and having accepted them, let 
the men themselves proceed pretty much on their own." 
Cranston, according to another writer who worked with 
him, was "shy and retiring, wrote little himself, but spent 
his energies discovering and encouraging talent wherever 
he found it." Hemingway reached Toronto in the first 
weeks of 1920 in need of both encouragement and discov- 
ery. Cranston remained his friend and supporter during the 
whole of the young American's turbulent association with 
the Star. He never made any attempt to identify himself 
with Hemingway's subsequent successes, beyond a brief 
note in his Canadian Who's Who biography in which he 
listed Hemingway among a half dozen others to whom he 
"gave first publication." The legend developed within a 
younger generation of Canadian writers that Cranston was 
the man who discovered Hemingway. Cranston himself was 
always frank to admit that he never looked upon the 
American "as likely to develop into anything out of the 

Cranston's bequest was his immediate recognition of such 
gifts as Hemingway had at the time, and his bestowal of 
the opportunity to exercise and extend them. Newspaper 
men of the period invariably testify to Cranston's consistent 
good taste as an editor. He was, according to Tim Reid, a 
prominent Canadian publicist and former city editor of the 
Daily Star, "an excellent judge of a story." Cranston en- 
couraged Hemingway from the beginning by his willing- 
ness to buy whatever the latter submitted. At their first 
meeting they "chatted about the kind of thing the paper 
wanted," Cranston recalled; after that "the ice was broken 
and for a number of weeks Hemingway's name appeared 
regularly in the paper." Cranston characterized the young 
man's work as written in conventional newspaper style, 


with considerable wit. This was the quality, in fact, which 
most pleased the editor. "Hemingway," Cranston declared 
in 1952, "could write in good, plain Anglo-Saxon, and had 
a certain much prized gift of humor." 

It was as a humorist, therefore, that Hemingway pre- 
sented himself in much of his Star Weekly material in 1920. 
Humor continued to be at least an important ingredient in 
all of his work for the magazine and, to a lesser degree, the 
Daily Star, during the next four years. His style and atti- 
tudes matured as he ranged experimentally through the 
various levels of burlesque, mimicry, satire, and irony. All 
of these qualities have been important in his fiction; his debt 
to Cranston and the Toronto papers was thus a large one 
in those terms alone. 

Hemingway's first story for the Toronto Star Weekly, 
published on February 14, 1920, without a by-line, estab- 
lished immediately this satiric impulse. 3 It was one of his 
few unsigned articles for either the Daily or the Weekly 
until late in 1923, when, though an experienced and well- 
paid reporter, he was being disciplined by the assistant 
managing editor. In February, 1920, however, the Star 
Weekly quite naturally printed without a by-line a story 
which was only a little over five hundred words long. 

Hemingway made the most of the situation's potential. 
His ironic account of the snobberies of a Toronto scheme 
for renting works of art must have pleased Cranston, always 
searching as he was for wit that was neither too subtle nor 
too broad. Hemingway's treatment, in which he isolated 
and emphasized nuances of speech and affectation, was cal- 
culated to mock the world he was describing a world not 
unlike Oak Park and entertain the less genteel subscribers 
for whom he was writing. It was deft and promising, evi- 


dence of high spirits and precocious gifts of mimicry as 
much as of any genuine talent. Certainly, however, it was 
verification that he could establish himself as a free lance 
with this weekly magazine whose needs were so neatly 
tailored to his current assets and requirements. No one but 
a clairvoyant could have foretold from the article that he 
would ever write any notable fiction; nor, on the other 
hand, was there anything in it so clumsy or dull that such 
a prophecy could be outlawed. It was an encouraging start; 
it gave him a toehold in journalism and all the benefits of 
regular deadlines. 

Three weeks later Cranston bought and printed another 
Hemingway story, this one equally shaped from and for 
the humorous prerequisites. 4 Cranston also gave him his first 
Toronto by-line. The lead paragraphs displayed the readi- 
ness, basic to the later success of his fiction, with which 
Hemingway has always been able to grasp and quickly 
identify himself with whatever world he happens at the 
moment to be inhabiting. Canada in 1920 was experiencing 
a mild nationalism, expressed in a struggle with England 
for political release, in the literary renaissance to which 
Cranston contributed the Star Weekly's money, and in a 
spasm of anti- Americanism. A Toronto audience, in Crans- 
ton's principle, would inevitably rise to the bait of Heming- 
way's opening lines. 

The land of the free and the home of the brave is the 
modest phrase used by certain citizens of the republic to 
the south of us to designate the country they live in. They 
may be brave but there is nothing free. Free lunch passed 
some time ago and on attempting to join the Free Masons 
you are informed that it will cost you seventy-five dollars. 

His second paragraph linked this crisp but seemingly 
unproductive lead with his general topic. "The true home 


of the free and the brave," Hemingway wrote, "is the 
barber college. Everything is free there. And you have to 
be brave." His prose had the exaggerated hyperbole basic 
to this type of humor. "For a visit to the barber college 
requires the cold, naked valor of the man who walks clear- 
eyed to death." The scene established, Hemingway picked 
up the narrative, shifting to dialogue that was easy and 
colloquial. He milked the situation with the expertness of 
a vaudeville routine. The story was semi-professional; its 
tricks and effects indicated his growing facility and confi- 
dence. He was maintaining in his writing an intensely per- 
sonal flavor. It was clear that if he did not remain a hack 
too long he had enough individuality to escape the formula 
prisons of feature writing. 

This was made abundantly evident by his third story, 
which was published the next week and preserved the ironic 
direction of his work. 5 His article on "How To Be Popular 
in Peace Though a Slacker in War" was savage and per- 
sonal. Its satire was observant, keyed again to an audience 
whose casualties in World War I had been appalling; 
Toronto's pride in its war record was belligerent and anti- 
American. Hemingway's lead exploited a characteristic 
blend of mock rhetoric and abrupt colloquialism. 

During the late friction with Germany a certain number 
of Torontonians of military age showed their desire to 
assist in the conduct of the war by emigrating to the States 
to give their all ... in munition plants. Having amassed 
large quantities of sheckles through their patriotic labor 
they now desire to return to Canada and gain fifteen per 
cent, on their United States money. 

Employing derisively the stock phrases ordinarily used to 
justify draft-dodging, Hemingway declared that "through 
a desire to aid these morally courageous souls who supplied 


the sinews of war," he would offer a few hints for "the 
returning munitioneer" who wanted to be popular. He 
suggested that it would be wise to come back to a different 
town, and he also had advice on how to handle the prob- 
lem of a discharge button. He gave explicit instruction, still 
in the parody of a technical or academic manual, on the 
matter of dress. "Go to one of the stores handling second- 
hand army goods and purchase yourself a trench coat. If 
you cannot get a trench coat buy a pair of army shoes." 

The war, quite clearly, was a genuinely compulsive fac- 
tor in all Hemingway's attitudes in 1920. His instinct to- 
ward satire had been sharpened by his experiences in Italy 
and by the disillusioning contradictions he observed in 
Chicago and Toronto. Had his reaction to the war been 
less positive he would have used it a great deal more in his 
work for the Star Weekly. Gregory Clark, the Weekly's 
feature editor and principal staff writer, who became a 
close friend of Hemingway during this period, observed 
this aspect of the young American with great interest. He 
felt that Hemingway was enduring a chaotic interlude of 
adjustment. "He was lost," Clark said many years later, 
"in the lovely confusion of trying to understand his past. 
He was trying to orient himself to the experiences he had 
been having." 

Clark was equally struck by Hemingway's gifts as a 
writer. "His use of words," Clark said in 1952, "was pre- 
cise, aware. His diction his choice of words, I mean 
was extraordinary." He remembered as a disturbing man- 
nerism the way in which Hemingway was continually 
shadow-boxing, either during a conversation or while others 
were talking; Clark felt it indicated a basic lack of confi- 
dence. Hemingway, however, soon adjusted to his new 
friends. Before long, according to Cranston, he had "tall 
tales to tell of his war experiences." The fourth of Heming- 
way 's 1920 pieces of satire, in fact, was another version of 


wartime slackers, less bitter than the one about Canadian 
munitioneers, but no less denunciatory in its mockery, this 
time, of service men who had not been in combat. 6 It was 
particularly significant as an indication of Hemingway's 
instinct for the general pattern of fiction. Save for the first 
paragraph, the article was composed almost entirely of 
dialogue between two Canadian veterans. Even that single 
paragraph of exposition was itself a conventional opening 
for pulp fiction. "Two returned men," Hemingway began, 
"stood gazing up in infinite disgust at a gang of workmen 
tearing down a building on King Street." 

In the remaining twelve paragraphs of dialogue Heming- 
way established the two men as legitimate combat veterans, 
supplying a refrain of wit in the resistance each old soldier 
showed toward hearing the other's reminiscence. The 
speech as a whole, to be sure, had the synthetic, stock real- 
ism of readable magazine fiction of the period, but the 
authenticity of some of the idiom and language rhythms 
was unmistakable. It was the speech of Canadians of the 
working class, still retaining some of the old country in- 
flections. It could never have been confused with the words 
of a veteran of the A.E.F., nor was it altogether like the 
talk of an English Tommy. It was an elementary distinc- 
tion, perhaps, but a conscious distinction nonetheless, and 
one not always made by newspapermen older and more 
experienced than Hemingway. 

Hemingway's affinity for dialogue, and his concern with 
its accurate use, was plainly evident in his work during the 
spring of 1920. He tended particularly to rely on it in 
these satiric articles. On March 1 3 the Star Weekly printed 
Hemingway's acid portrait of the mayor of Toronto. 7 The 
seven-hundred-word character sketch was an extended dis- 
play of the gift for caricature which Hemingway had 
demonstrated in the story on renting works of art. The 
article had an uncompromising frankness that was fresh 


and startling. Its lucidity verifies Hemingway's memory of 
the solitary work he had done in Michigan between his 
return from Italy in 1919 and his arrival in Toronto in 
early 1920. When Gregory Clark summed up his specific 
memories of Hemingway's Toronto journalism, this par- 
ticular sketch was the only one which still remained clear 
in his mind. "It was good," Clark recalled in 1950. "Maybe 
we didn't know how good." 

Mayor Tommy Church was presented by Hemingway 
as he appeared during an evening at the fights in Massey 
Hall. T. L. Church advertised himself widely, and was 
generally accepted as, a zealous devotee of all sports. The 
synthetic pretense by a vote-conscious politician enraged 
Hemingway. He built the portrait around this aspect of 
the Mayor's personality. 

Mayor Church is a keen lover of all sporting contests. He 
is an enthusiast over boxing, hockey and all the manly 
sports. Any sporting event that attracts voters as spectators 
numbers his Worship as one of its patrons. If marbles, leap 
frog, and tit-tat-toe were viewed by citizens of voting age, 
the Mayor would be enthusiastically present. Due to the 
youth of the competitors the Mayor reluctantly refrains 
from attending all of the above sports. 

Hemingway maintained that after the last bout that night 
Mayor Church said, "Meeting's dismissed," thinking he was 
at the City Council. The final paragraph reaffirmed the lead. 
"The Mayor," Hemingway wrote, "is just as interested in 
hockey as he is in boxing. If cootie fighting or Swedish 
pinochle, or Australian boomerang hurling are ever taken 
up by the voters, count on the Mayor to be there in a 
ringside seat. For the Mayor loves all sport." It was one of 
the stories which Cranston, like Clark, could remember 
years later. He recalled it as "a lively description of Mayor 


Tommy Church," written "in characteristic Hemingway 
style with plenty of punch in it." 

Hemingway's punch was not restricted in his 1920 jour- 
nalism to the thoroughly humorous or satiric. There was 
another block of material substantial enough to illustrate, 
like the satires, other characteristics of this stage of his 
apprenticeship. Hemingway wrote for the Star Weekly 
five stories about fishing and camping. They were long and 
detailed. In wordage they exceeded the satiric group; they 
were also less impressive as prose. Perhaps Hemingway was 
too familiar with the material to erect with care the neat 
structures and developments of several of his satires. The 
treatment was loose and patronizing. Stylistically, with oc- 
casional exceptions, the stories tended to look back toward 
the high school Trapeze rather than forward to the early 
fiction. They were virtually essays, clear and interesting, 
but without the sense of form which characterized his 
portraits and denunciations. His manner was stern and 

"Sporting magazines," he began a story printed on April 
24, "have fostered a popular fiction to the effect that no 
gentleman would catch a trout in any manner but on a fly 
on a nine foot tapered leader attached to a double tapered 
fly line cast from a forty-five dollar four and a half ounce 
rod." 8 The instructional impulse, basic to all successful 
journalism, was a strong one in Hemingway. He explained 
the motivation behind this deceit. "Out door magazines," 
he pointed out, "are supported by their advertising." He 
maintained that the advertisers were manufacturing expen- 
sive products "suitable to the understocked, over-fished 
streams of the Eastern United States." Myth and fraud 
clarified, Hemingway concentrated on the various kinds 
of live bait. The remainder of the article almost a thou- 
sand words was an elaboration of his belief that "worms, 


grubs, beetles, crickets, and grasshoppers are some of the 
best trout baits." 9 

The articles about fishing and camping indicated Hem- 
ingway's concern with expository writing. Cranston bought 
three more for June and August issues. They preserved the 
subjective intimacy of most of Hemingway's journalism. 
He was already following wherever possible the funda- 
mental edict of his creative writing; a man should write 
only about what he has known. The first two stories were 
timely lectures on how to spend a vacation in the woods. 10 
The third, its emphasis on the more profitable drama of 
rainbow trout, was much the best of the trio, less coy and 
labored. 11 Hemingway found a Canadian angle for this 
account of fishing experiences that had been primarily in 
Michigan. "The rainbow," he wrote, "has recently been 
introduced into Canadian waters. At present the best rain- 
bow trout fishing in the world is in the rapids of the 
Canadian Soo." The inflated rhetoric of high school prose 
still clung to his writing. "It is a wild and nerve-frazzling 
sport," he went on, "and the odds are in favor of the big 
trout who tear off thirty or forty yards of line at a rush 
and then will sulk at the base of a big rock and refuse to be 
stirred into action by the pumping of a stout fly aided by a 
fluent monologue of Ojibwayan profanity." His precise 
sense of landscape, as he catalogued the physical character- 
istics of the trout river, was sharper and more mature. 

A high pine covered bluff that rises steep up out of 
the shadows. A short sand slope down to the river and a 
quick elbow turn with a little flood wood jammed in the 
bend and then a pool. 

A pool where the moselle colored water sweeps into a 
dark swirl and expanse that is blue-brown with depth and 
fifty feet across. 


There was the recurrent suggestion of his instinct for 
fiction as he pointed out that "the action is supplied by two 
figures that slog into the picture up along the trail along the 
river bank with loads on their back that would tire a pack 
horse." He remained in the present tense, dramatizing the 
fishermen and their excitement. His narrative of the catch 
itself was energetic and declarative, cleansed for the mo- 
ment of garrulous journalese. "He tore down the pool and 
the line went out until the core of the reel showed. He 
jumped and each time he shot into the air we lowered the 
tip and prayed. Finally he jumped, and the line went slack 
and Jacques reeled in. We thought he was gone and then 
he jumped right under our faces." 

Hemingway provided a kind of final installment to this 
fishing and camping series with an account of lake trout 
he had encountered in Michigan in September of that 
year. 12 The story was not written, however, until after he 
returned from Horton Bay it was published in the Star 
Weekly on November 20 and he justified its out-of- 
season quality with an entertaining lead in which he de- 
scribed the "opening of the great indoor fishing season." 
His paragraphs were slanted expertly with local allusions. 
"More fish are caught in clubs at this time of year," Hem- 
ingway wrote, "than ever were taken from the Nipigon. 
Bigger trout are taken around the tables in King Street 
cafeterias than in the prizes offered by the sporting maga- 
zines. And more fish get away within the confines of To- 
ronto than are lost in all the trout streams of Christendom." 

In this way, with winter anecdotes about the great 
catches of spring and summer, Hemingway completed his 
essays on northern Michigan. They had as much body as 
most of the journalism Cranston was able to buy for the 
Star Weekly; they had more durability than some of it. 
They contained occasional paragraphs of vigor and imag- 
ination. They were competent and effective in terms of the 


medium for which they were designed; it would be un- 
realistic to belittle the expository and narrative gifts they 
represented in a twenty-year-old high school graduate. It 
would be equally unrealistic to aggrandize them. The ar- 
ticles emphasize again the crucial importance of experi- 
ences and associations which would occur during the next 
three years. In 1920 Hemingway was neither more nor less 
promising than any talented undergraduate of wit and 
energy. On the other hand, he was exposed to dangers that 
do not normally exist for a young writer in undergraduate 
circles. An extreme vocational adaptability was already ap- 
parent in his free-lance work. It was evident in the casual- 
ness with which he had warmed over some of the camping 
material for a second Star Weekly serving. 


On April 10, in the same issue in which was printed the 
satiric exercise in dialogue about the two Canadian veterans, 
there appeared a second story by Hemingway. 13 It was 
longer than its companion, and so different as to seem the 
work of another writer. It represented a kind of journalism 
Hemingway produced for the Star Weekly with increasing 
frequency; it was almost a scenario of his work during the 
fall of 1923. At this stage in his career, however, its glib 
facility was alarming. The 1920 treatment displayed a 
journeyman capacity for manufacturing a salable story 
from wholly stale material. Hemingway wrote about teeth, 
the causes and manner of their infection, and the merits and 
disadvantages in having them extracted. 

The story was as shrewdly presented as a patent medi- 
cine, slick with heavy wit, and admirably lucid. No amount 
of clarity, however, could disguise its pedestrian quality. 
Hemingway quoted at length, like the weariest of hacks, 
from "a leading Toronto dentist." His nine final paragraphs 


about six hundred words were an unacknowledged 
popularization of the charts and texts which hang in a 
dentist's office. Hemingway had an immense capacity for 
hard work, and an impressive willingness to learn; his talent 
nevertheless required severe tutoring if it weren't to de- 
generate into mere fluency. 

That the article was more than a momentary cynicism 
was verified by a story published two weeks later. 14 Hem- 
ingway here produced what was little more than an 
anecdote. Less than five hundred words, its only resem- 
blance to his conscientious satires was that once again he 
exposed a popular illusion. His theme was that "big depart- 
ment stores cannot obtain insurance against changes of 
style." He explained that a corollary of this was the tech- 
nique by which unsold clothes were being sent by the 
Toronto stores to small cities "in the mining district, bush 
or country," where they were re-offered for sale as the 
latest Toronto models. The article was spun from the 
rhetorical question, "What becomes of the old style, and 
the unsuccessful styles?" Hemingway enlarged on the com- 
mercial hoax, and ended with a single sentence paragraph 
whose crisp paradox may have been the material's original 
attraction. "These little stores on the edge of things are the 
real graveyard of dead styles." 

The story was at best an abortive execution of a com- 
monplace conceit. Like the rest of his work in 1920, how- 
ever, it convinced Cranston that in Hemingway he had 
located a writer of uncommon inventiveness. Verbally as 
well as in prose, Hemingway evidently overwhelmed the 
editor. "He had been a vagabond," Cranston once ex- 
plained, on the basis of what Hemingway told him in 
Toronto, "from the day he decided he had had enough of 
school." Cranston enlarged on this on another occasion, 
describing Hemingway's boyhood as having been spent 
"riding the rods and sleeping in tramp jungles." Heming- 


way was taking over as his own all the hobo lore he had 
heard from Lionel Moise in Kansas City. 15 Canadians, until 
very recently at least, have been willing to believe almost 
anything of Americans. Hemingway found Cranston an 
excellent audience. 

"There was nothing Hemingway would not do just for 
the sheer excitement of it," Cranston maintained, "and he 
had eaten or said he had all kinds of things, slugs, earth- 
worms, lizards, all the delicacies that the savage tribes of the 
world fancy, just to get their taste." The editor recalled 
that whenever he "ran out of subjects on which Heming- 
way might write he was always able to pull a good one out 
of his adventurous past." The fourth story Hemingway 
sold Cranston was an illustration, for the Canadian, of this 
limitless reservoir. Hemingway had known and observed 
petty criminals in Kansas City, and he had cultivated the 
friendship of cops and detectives. He now wrote for the 
Star Weekly a plausible analysis of department store lar- 
ceny. 10 The triviality of the material did not prevent it 
from being excellent practice up to a point for a young 
writer who wanted to be able to explain and clarify and 
vivify. The treatment was standard Sunday supplement 
presentation, of the sort that was being supplied regularly 
to similar mass circulation weeklies and syndicates in the 
United States. Such articles consolidated his association 
with the Star Weekly. "I would hesitate to suggest that I 
taught Hemingway anything," Cranston said later. "He 
was a born storyteller." 

In 1920 the importance of newspaper work to Heming- 
way derived primarily from the opportunity to write con- 
stantly, for publication, in a medium which required narra- 
tive that was interesting and forceful. By 1923, when Hem- 
ingway completed four concentrated years of feature 
writing and reporting, his compulsion toward fiction was 
breaking through the restrictions of the Star Weekly 

frrmnli ("Vrt-nin final orl-irl^c in i-np> lit-* foil n( 1 O') 3 \iTf>re* 


transition pieces between the feature and the short story. 
Even in 1920 Hemingway's instinct toward exposition 
through dialogue and action was a powerful one. For the 
issue of June 5 Hemingway wrote a full-column survey of 
the role which Canadians and Canadian liquor were playing 
in the violation of American prohibition. 17 Cranston fea- 
tured it on the first page of the magazine section. It bal- 
anced, in terms of page make-up, an article by the late 
Fred Griffin; as a rule Griffin shared the Weekly's top as- 
signments and columns with Gregory Clark. Hemingway's 
story was notable for its compact, imaginative style. On 
this occasion his talent dominated the material. He illus- 
trated his denunciation of ambiguous Canadian laws with 
an effective vignette. 

I saw a slack lipped, white faced kid being supported on 
either side by two scared looking boys of his own age in 
an alley outside a theatre in Detroit. His face was pasty 
and his eyes stared unseeingly. He was deathly sick, his 
arms hanging loosely. 

"Where'd he get it?" I asked one of the scared kids. 

"Blew in his week's pay for a quart of Canuck boot- 
legged." The two boys hauled him up the alley. "Come 
on, we got to get him out of here before the cops see him." 

Crime and violence had a special fascination for Heming- 
way, and, of course, particularly if it were of American 
origin, for his employers. He ended his 1920 association 
with the Star Weekly, in the issue of December 1 1, with an 
even more specific exploration of racketeers. 18 The story 
was date-lined from Chicago on December 8. Hemingway 
gave it authenticity by placing most of his emphasis on the 
ex-killer from whom he had gotten most of his information. 
"Perhaps it were better not to describe him too closely," 
he wrote, "because he might run on to a Toronto paper. 

Rut he is ahniif us hanHsnmp as a fprrpf Vis fin** Visnrlc anrl 


looks like a jockey a little overweight." The phrases have 
the outline at least of the brief exposition in "The Killers," 
where the two gunmen's hands, as well as their slight 
statures, are emphasized. The Star Weekly article even in- 
cluded, as would "The Killers/' a juxtaposition of crime 
and the ring. Hemingway's final paragraph had a poised, 
confident tone, closer now to the idiom of his early fiction 
than had been the sometimes forced, precocious material he 
had sold Cranston at the beginning of 1920. It is a re- 
minder that he had matured as a writer during these 
months. "That's the type of mercenary that is doing the 
Irishmen's killings for them. He isn't a heroic or even a 
dramatic figure. He just sits hunched over his whiskey glass, 
worries about how to invest his money, lets his weasel mind 
run on and wishes the boys luck." 

It was his fifteenth article for the Star Weekly. IQ The 
stories had averaged approximately fifteen hundred words. 
The fact that they had been largely written in the four 
months between March and June pointed to a fairly con- 
sistent production of about five thousand words of pub- 
lishable material each month. He had been aided in the 
formation of regular working habits. He hadn't made 
much money Cranston said later 20 that "his biggest 
check was $10" but he had earned enough and written 
enough to legitimately think of himself as a writer and 
to feel that, given time, he could ultimately make a liv- 
ing through his work. This was a crucial step. At the age 
of twenty-one he could regard himself as a professional. He 
would thereby sift all his subsequent experiences in terms of 
their possible use in his work. He had worked with men as 
able as Fred Griffin and Gregory Clark. He had won their 
professional respect and the confidence of his editor. Hem- 
ingway's arrivals in and departures from Toronto were 
frequent between 1920 and 1924, and in later years his 
Canadian friends were sometimes confused as to the pre- 


however, stated categorically that as early as 1920, while 
"he wrote articles for the Star Weekly to keep himself in 
clothes and fodder," Hemingway was also "ambitious to 
become a writer" and "labored" at his writing "in his spare 


Hemingway returned to Chicago in the autumn of 1920, 
after spending the summer in Horton Bay. He was re- 
luctant to settle in his family's Oak Park home; in Chicago 
he lived on the outskirts of the world of people like the re- 
tired gunman and the practicing bootleggers. The Star 
Weekly feature work he resumed in 1921 would reflect 
this world. In the meantime he spent a great deal of time in 
the Chicago gyms, and in the Italian restaurants. For a 
while, very broke, he shared a furnished room with Bill 
Home, his ambulance corps friend. Eventually he got a job 
through a want ad in the Chicago Tribune. He became an 
associate editor of Co-operative Commonwealth, a monthly 
house organ by which Harrison Parker, a Chicago advertis- 
ing man, was publicizing his venture of the moment. Hem- 
ingway did not know much about this enterprise when 
he accepted the position. His brief association with the 
magazine did not increase his sense of harmony with post- 
war America. He turned out a good deal of copy for the 
magazine, however, and in his spare time and on the 
magazine's time as well he continued with his own work. 
As an episode in his apprenticeship it was by no means 
comparable to the seven months in Kansas City, nor to the 
period he had just spent in Toronto. It nonetheless made 
certain contributions to his literary situation. His trans- 
formation from a feature writer in Canada to a house organ 
editor for a Chicago promoter, brief as it was, is another 
well-defined gradation in his training. 




"The Cooperative Society of America 
. ... is a colossal shell-game." 

Nation 1 

Had Harrison Parker exercised occasional restraint, and 
had he not been seized by political ambitions, he might have 
overshadowed Samuel Insull as Chicago's success story of 
the 1920's. Parker has nevertheless had a profitable career 
as a devotee of the complex holding company as well as the 
simpler beauties of prize contests. 2 He has made good use 
of the United States Post Office, which has over the years 
received many complaints about a variety of promises he 
has expressed through the mails. 

The Co-operative Society of America its name decep- 
tively similar to that of the legitimate and highly respected 
Cooperative League of the United States of America was 
incorporated by Parker in Chicago on February 20, 1919. 
It was created out of the ruins of the recently defunct Na- 
tional Society of Fruitvalers. The new society's assets were 
heavily mortgaged properties, of doubtful value, in Muske- 
gan, Michigan. Its structure was that of a trust, filed by 
Parker's wife. Mrs. Parker subsequently earned $1,522,609 
through the sale of certificates in the society, while being 
paid a salary of five hundred dollars a week as secretary of 
one of the subsidiary companies. The trust named Parker 
and two male associates as trustees. A trust was more at- 


tractive to Parker than either a corporation or a partnership, 
since virtually unlimited powers could be assigned to 

Parker and his two lieutenants were now legally entitled 
to everything that might be contributed in the future to the 
society by potential subscribers. They were permitted to 
sell or mortgage such contributions without the consent of 
the members. They were cited in the trust agreement as 
"not liable to the members for the results of their incom- 
petence, or for their acts or failures to act." It was stipu- 
lated that the trustees were "not to be bonded to indemnify 
the members for losses arising out of dishonesty." They 
were authorized to fix their own compensations. The mem- 
bers, on the other hand, as the magazine Co-operation the 
foremost journal of the authentic co-operative movement 
pointed out bitterly in 1921, enjoyed "less opportunity for 
democratic control than even the usual profit-making cor- 
poration." 3 They could neither compel the trustees to pay 
dividends out of the earnings of the society, nor were they 
entitled to an accounting. The bait, of course, was easy 

Parker urged his prospective subscribers to "provide for 
your old age by investing in the great Co-operative Move- 
ment." He also promised an opportunity "to cut the cost 
of living through the elimination of profiteering on the 
necessities of life." Before an angry minority of his stock- 
holders managed to bring him into court, convinced that 
his campaign for governor of Illinois had been financed 
with their money, Harrison Parker had acquired 81,000 
contributors. From them, and through the manipulation of 
the funds in a set of allied trusts, he received investments of 
$11,500,000. When the society was finally adjudged bank- 
rupt on October 6, 1922, in the United States District 
Court in Chicago, it had acquired liabilities of $15,000,000 
and retained assets of $50,000. 


The remaining assets, which may have formed the seed 
of what Parker later called the "considerable competence" 
that permitted him to retire in 1931, had been transferred 
to a new organization, The Cooperators of America. Parker 
was its principal trustee. In 1921, when Judge Kenesaw 
Mountain Landis whose name Parker had been impu- 
dently using in his promotional literature ordered Parker 
to sell no more society securities in the state of Illinois, he 
expressed his horror at what had been revealed about the 
organization. "It is so unclean, the whole thing," Landis 
said, almost in disbelief, "no matter where you touch it." 
The Nation published an indignant account of Heming- 
way's employer in the issue of October 19, 1922. The 
article described the entire operation as "a colossal venture 
in frenzied finance." 4 Some of the energy for the venture 
was provided by idealistic young students from North- 
western University and the University of Chicago; they 
helped in the local distribution of circulars and conceived 
of themselves as partners in an evangelical crusade. The sale 
of securities was also prompted by the flood of pamphlets 
which Parker circulated throughout the Middle West. The 
principal vehicle of persuasion, however, was a monthly 
publication, Co-operative Commonwealth. It was as an 
editor of Parker's magazine that Hemingway supported 
himself in the winter of 1920. 


Evangelical idealism was not the impulse which brought 
Hemingway to the staff of Co-operative Commonwealth ', 
although he later admitted he assumed "a co-operative thing 
was straight because they had tried to start one for market- 
ing apples when I worked on the farm in Michigan." In 
1920 he was moved primarily by the fifty dollars a week 
which the job paid. He accepted on faith the organization's 


statement that it was patterned after the old Rochdale Co- 
operatives in England. The Chicago Tribune want ad made 
no mention of the Co-operative Society of America, simply 
advertising for someone to fill an editing job, with a box 
number. "He was pretty completely out of a job and 
money," his friend Bill Home recalled later, "until this 
house organ editorship came along." Home and Heming- 
way continued to live in the former's attic bedroom at 1230 
North State Street for a brief time; then the generosity of 
Y. K. Smith, the oldest of the Smith family from Horton 
Bay, enabled them to move into completely different quar- 
ters on Chicago's near north side. 5 

Smith, a successful advertising man, was living with his 
wife in a large, old-fashioned apartment at 100 East Chi- 
cago Street. The flat had been sublet from Mrs. Dorothy 
Aldis, a wealthy, local patroness of the arts then traveling 
in Europe. "Big-hearted Y.K.," according to Roy Dickey, 
Smith's former copy chief at the Critchfield agency, "had 
promptly moved all his indigent friends in to share the 
apartment." In addition to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the apart- 
ment now sheltered the former's younger sister, Kate, who 
later married John Dos Passos; a friend of hers named Edith 
Foley, a free-lance writer; Hemingway and Home; and 
Donald M. Wright, another advertising man. Home and 
Hemingway shared a bedroom, as did the two young 
women. Wright, who was not working at the time, slept 
late in the mornings and had a room to himself. 

It was a very pleasant arrangement. Three of the group 
were old friends of Hemingway. He had known the Smiths 
since he was twelve, and Horne, of course, was an ambu- 
lance corps buddy. All of them, with the exception of Mrs. 
Smith, were interested in writing and were earning their 
livings as writers of one sort or another. Smith was a man 
of culture, widely read and perceptive, and very articulate. 
Horne and Wright were both advertising men; the latter, 


a friend and great admirer of Sherwood Anderson, with 
whom he had done agency work, had literary ambitions. 
Kate Smith and Edith Foley were collaborating on maga- 
zine articles. Smith had a wide acquaintanceship in Chicago, 
and a variety of interesting people continually visited the 
apartment in the evenings. 

It was not a bohemian atmosphere. Smith had no inten- 
tion of sponsoring a miniature Latin Quarter. He was him- 
self fastidious and well bred, and he was sufficiently older 
than the rest so that his point of view established the gen- 
eral tone of their lives, at least so far as the apartment was 
concerned. Home, almost thirty, was hard-working and 
ambitious. Neither Wright nor Hemingway were dissi- 
pated men. Their evenings were usually spent in the apart- 
ment, both by inclination and because none of the younger 
tenants had much money. Smith recalled that in their con- 
versations, as well as in the fraternity-type horseplay, Hem- 
ingway was invariably the leader. "He was by far the most 
colorful of us," Smith said later, "and very witty." 

Hemingway himself was very fond of Smith. Wright 
conceived of their relationship as almost that of foster 
parent and son, and maintained afterwards that Heming- 
way once told him that he had "learned all I know about 
many things from Y.K." Smith also was more sympathetic 
to Hemingway's talent than the others; until Sherwood 
Anderson joined the group he was probably the only one 
who sensed the extent of the young man's gifts. The rest 
had various attitudes toward his work. Home, of course, 
was devoted to him, admired every aspect of his character, 
and, in his own phrase, remained his "hero-worshiper" 
during the subsequent years. Home, however, was the least 
literary of the group. Wright, the most self-consciously 
literary, thought of Hemingway as a competent journalist, 
but all their tastes were different; Wright was appalled by 
Hemingway's turbulent realism and his positive statements 


about what was good and what was bad in writing. Smith, 
the most mature and acute, felt that during the winter and 
spring of 1921 Hemingway had no clear conception of 
what he wanted to do, but a very real notion of what he 
didn't want. 

"He hated the idea of a nine to five job/' Smith said 
many years later. "He wanted his freedom. He had no illu- 
sions about journalism, but he'd concluded that it was at 
least better than anything else he'd seen." 

Despite the absence of a well-conceived philosophy or 
plan of attack whose existence would have been startling 
in one so young and so recently returned from the trau- 
matic experience of war Hemingway was working far 
harder than the rest. He was writing a great deal, both for 
Co-operative Commonwealth and on his own. In the eve- 
nings, when the others were idling in the living room, 
Hemingway was apt to be in his room, typing. He stood 
out from the others in his diligence and his intensity. In 
1937 Wright published a brief sketch of the Smith group. 
He remembered that Hemingway "was trying any and 
every kind of writing at the time he even fired out satiri- 
cal rewrites of world news to Vanity Fair, to no avail." 6 

It was during these months, in this mood of almost buck- 
shot literary endeavor, that Hemingway wrote two frag- 
ments which were published in New Orleans by the 
Double-Dealer, a little magazine, in the spring of 1922. 
"A Divine Gesture," the first of these, was a brief, ironic 
prose sketch, in the manner of Anatole France or such an 
imitator as Ben Hecht. 7 Elaborately arch, this satire on the 
triviality of mankind is so alien to Hemingway's literary 
attitudes, as displayed extensively in the journalism and 
fiction he wrote in Europe in 1922 and 1923, that it verifies 
Wright's statement that he was attempting a variety of 
mediums in Chicago. "Ultimately," the quatrain which the 
Double-Dealer printed in the June issue, was somewhat 


more characteristic; 8 it was not unlike the poetry of his 
expatriate pamphlet of 1923, Three Stories & Ten Poems. 
On the whole, however, the Double-Dealer material was 
more truly juvenilia than almost anything he had written 
since he left high school, abortive concessions to the milieu 
in which he was temporarily living. 

Hemingway was nevertheless completely serious about 
mastering his trade. "Will it sell?" he would ask his friends 
at the apartment, after reading one of the stories aloud. "Do 
you think it will sell?" There was a real irony in his concen- 
tration upon salability. While the others discussed art and 
the artistic verities, and urged Hemingway to concern him- 
self more with the permanent values of literature, he was 
actually subjecting himself to a rigid professional discipline. 
He was dismayed and angered, however as he has con- 
tinued to be by too much talking in large, vague terms 
about writing. "Artist, art, artistic!" he would shout. "Can't 
we ever hear the last of that stuff! " While they talked about 
art, with the rather easy intensity of dilettantes, Heming- 
way talked about story markets, and about the fighters he 
was watching in Kid Howard's gym; and above all, his 
friends remembered, he talked about soldiering. 

He was inevitably profiting from this literate atmosphere, 
on the other hand, much as he might despise its garrulous, 
uncreative aspects. He was himself interested in music and 
painting and in the specific work of the artists who came to 
the apartment. He told his friends that music, like writing, 
had above all to be clear; his conception of painting showed 
the same earnest fidelity to realism, authenticity, and im- 
mediacy. The traditional picture of literary Chicago during 
the early 1920's is as a sort of cornbelt Florence. The Smith 
apartment was a miniature of that aspect of the city. Hem- 
ingway could not help but be affected by the passionate 
concern with art and craft. He had simple, absolute convic- 


tions as to the functions of writing and the responsibilities 
of the writer. 

"You've got to see it, feel it, smell it, hear it," he once 
declared to the group. This commandment, basic to all his 
subsequent work, is confirmed by Hemingway's own 
memory of what he was attempting in those months. 

"I was always working by myself," he said in 1952, in an 
effort to define his literary debts, "years before I met 
Ezra [Pound] or Gertrude [Stein]. This is how I would 
do [it]. For instance I knew I always received many strong 
sensations when I went into the gym to train or work out 
with boxers." As he sat in the gym, wrapping his hands and 
waiting to get in the ring, he would try to identify the 
various smells. This was the first step of the process. The 
second step isolated him even more dramatically, in a liter- 
ary sense, from the rest of the Smith group. This was the 
step he practiced in the evenings, while the others talked in 
the living room of art and craft and the creative process. 
"When I would get back from the gym," Hemingway re- 
membered, "I would write [the sensations] down." Clearly 
Hemingway was not merely indulging in comforting talk 
when he told Don Wright that a writer must see it, feel it, 
smell it, hear it. 

Wright, of course, could agree that this was perhaps one 
kind of writing, although he did not accept it as a total 
prescription, any more than it would have been accepted by 
Sherwood Anderson, the contemporary writer for whom 
Wright reserved his greatest admiration. Hemingway's at- 
titude toward Anderson, who was soon introduced into the 
group by Wright and Smith, both of them former asso- 
ciates of his in local advertising work, was a revealing one. 
The other members of the group were constantly razzing 
Anderson, kidding him affectionately about his flamboyant 
dress, his extravagant stories, his imaginative flights. Hem- 
ingway, however, was always very polite to Anderson, 


quiet and attentive. His attitude might have been inter- 
preted as simply that of a young apprentice sitting respect- 
fully at the feet of an older and more experienced and 
relatively successful writer. Smith, who was always in- 
trigued by Hemingway's complex personality and attitudes, 
had a different interpretation. "It probably means a storm's 
brewing," he said, explaining that in his experience Hem- 
ingway handled certain personal relationships like a good 
boxer, encouraging his opponent to overextend himself, 
growing more tense and silent as a situation developed. 

Anderson, on the other hand, was from the beginning 
delighted with the young newspaperman. Anderson was 
then living on Division Street, not far from the Smith apart- 
ment, and he visited them often that winter. He was em- 
phatic in his response to and predictions about Hemingway. 
"Thanks," Anderson said to his hosts the first night, "for 
introducing me to that young fellow. I think he's going to 
go some place." Anderson was already an important figure 
in Chicago's literary life. His visits to the Smiths were 
notable events. Bill Home felt that the opportunity to talk 
to the various people who came to the apartment was "im- 
portant to Hemingway's development as a writer," and he 
was certain that "the high point of those evenings was when 
Sherwood Anderson would come over and spend the eve- 
ning with us." Hemingway continued to be polite and 
respectful, but occasionally he revealed a little of what he 
was already thinking. He was thoroughly hostile, inevita- 
bly, to Anderson's concept of unconscious art. Once or 
twice he was vocally critical of Anderson's style. 

"You couldn't let a sentence like that go," Hemingway 
once said after Anderson had left, taking with him the 
story he had just read aloud. This was the beginning of 
Anderson's period of great success, however, and he was 
totally unaware of the doubts which existed in the critical 
mind of his young friend. Anderson never claimed to have 


influenced Hemingway's work as a whole. The most he 
ever said was that it was "through my efforts" that Hem- 
ingway "first got published." Anderson was very explicit 
about this. "Anyway it is sure," he wrote twenty years 
later in his Memoirs, "that if others said I had shown Hem- 
ingway the way, I myself had never said so. I thought . . . 
that he had his own gift, which had nothing particularly to 
do with me." 9 

Anderson then added a charitable sentence which con- 
firms the testimony of the other members of the Smith 
clique. "Absorption in his ideas," Anderson speculated, try- 
ing to analyze the impulse which caused Hemingway to 
satirize him in 1926 in The Torrents of Springy "may have 
affected his capacity for friendship." Certainly there was 
no doubt about the intensity or conviction with which 
Hemingway regarded writing. One was either with him or 
against him. There could be no compromise or variation. 
As an attitude this did not encourage permanent relation- 
ships with other writers. His mistrust of Anderson was 
vocational rather than personal. His actual debt to Ander- 
son was a large one. 

The praise and sponsorship of a respected, productive 
writer were of very real value both psychologically and 
professionally. They contributed to the strength and con- 
fidence which would sustain him during the forthcoming 
period of rejection. Hemingway was bolstered in his ar- 
tistic intentions by the knowledge that Anderson was 
achieving recognition with something of the same kind of 
material as his own. Gregory Clark remembered that Hem- 
ingway read Anderson's work constantly in Toronto. 
Anderson was a spur, a symbol, as well as a tangible ma- 
terial prop, a promise that a man could write what he felt 
and still find a market. As individuals, however, they were 
so fundamentally in competition that they could not remain 
close for any length of time. 


"They were very much alike in their vanity," according 
to Don Wright, "and in the delight they each took in the 
eff ect they had on others. Both of them were always saying, 
'Look, I put something over, didn't I!* " 

The primary value of the winter in Chicago was in the 
compulsion to produce work constantly. "I think that 
probably the only thing about this particular deal which 
contributed to Hemmy's writing future/' maintained 
Home, who continued to see Hemingway until the 1930's r 
"was the fact that it kept him writing." There were be- 
tween fifty and sixty pages to be filled each month in Co- 
operative Commonwealth. Although Harrison Parker took 
freely from the material of legitimate co-operative maga- 
zines, Hemingway was responsible for delivering a good 
deal of original copy. The magazine stressed human in- 
terest stories; Hemingway thus continued in effect the 
same type of features he had been writing in Toronto. He 
was also responsible for what he referred to as "thinking 
and planning of editorials." His hours were elastic. The 
understanding was that he would do a good deal of his 
work at home. 

Hemingway's job which he once referred to as "man- 
aging editor" owed its existence to the recent transfor- 
mation of Co-operative Commonwealth into a monthly. 
The magazine was being slicked up during the autumn of 
1920, under the new editorship of Richard Loper, as part 
of Parker's renewed campaign for members. Hemingway's 
brief tenure occurred, therefore, during a time when pro- 
fessional standards had replaced the amateurish informality 
and irregular publication of earlier months. The magazine 
was now well edited, with excellent layouts, good caption- 
ing, clear text, and a lavish use of photographs. There was 
a skillful reliance on devices that would interest the unso- 
phisticated audience at which the house organ was directed. 
The magazine emphasized that it regarded "the members as 


of utmost importance to the co-operative movement," 
promising "to print all we can about the membership." 10 It 
included briskly written personal notes, news of engage- 
ments and weddings, and descriptions of members' vaca- 
tions. Hemingway was again being conditioned, as on the 
Kansas City Star and the Toronto Star Weekly, to write 
entertaining and provocative material. Biblical phrases and 
similes occurred frequently in the articles and editorials; 
the evangelical quality Parker sought to cast across the 
movement was always present in neat, controlled rations. 
The editorials emphasized pious instruction on such topics 
as, "What Is Idealism?" The magazine's cover and format, 
even to the size, type, and design, were studiously modeled 
on those of the legitimate co-operative publications. 

Hemingway could not have been placed in an atmosphere 
better calculated to increase his distaste for certain Ameri- 
can values and his determination to avoid permanent 
bondage to any such employment. The Co-operative So- 
ciety of America differed from American business as a 
whole only in the fact that Parker's intentions were fraudu- 
lent. His approach to his product, the techniques used 
in merchandising it, and the audience instincts to which 
he appealed, were characteristic of the surface appear- 
ance of American commercial life. It was incongruous 
employment for a skeptical young veteran with a fixed 
set of personal ethics; on the other hand, of course, it sharp- 
ened Hemingway's acute sense of the ironic and paradoxi- 
cal, and increased his personal ambitions as a writer. 

Nor was the environment of the Smith apartment one 
that would increase his satisfaction with the importance or 
validity of conventional values. The young advertising men 
and artists who spent their evenings at East Chicago Street 
both the tenants and their friends had in varying de- 
grees the same attitude toward commerce as those which 
Sherwood Anderson was expressing in his conversation and 


his work. A few of them were serious students of possible 
solutions to the ambiguities of materialistic values. Most of 
them, however, expressed an attitude which was also Hem- 
ingway's. They mocked the entire situation both as it in- 
volved them personally and in the larger terms of the 
system as a whole. 

u We had much fun after hours," Wright remembered, 
"telling yarns about the scheming of the low grade morons 
who were our bosses in agencies and magazines." Smith 
summed up the general attitude when he said of the presi- 
dential campaign of 1920 that "Harding is elected and the 
Revolution is assured." During the 1930's Wright sold to 
the trade journal Advertising & Selling a series of articles 
called "A Mid- Western Ad Man Remembers." In one of 
these he described the Smith group as an example of the 
"many literary-advertising 'gangs' " then current in Chi- 
cago, and included a paragraph or two about "the burlesque 
advertising plans" with which Hemingway entertained 
them in the evenings. One of the plans, according to 
Wright, had to do with bottling blood at the stockyards 
and selling it "in gooey kidd-ee copy as 'Bull Gore for Big- 
ger Babies/ " n Hemingway's skepticism about advertising 
quickly extended to the Co-operative Society of America. 
Before long he was regaling his friends with stories about 
the scheme. Smith remembered the cynical delight with 
which Hemingway repeated a declaration by one of Park- 
er's front men that "the membersVe got a voice but not a 

"I worked until I was convinced it was crooked," Hem- 
ingway said many years later, "stayed on a little while 
thinking I could write and expose it, and then decided to 
just rack it up as experience and the hell with it." 

Home remembered distinctly that toward the end of 
Hemingway's employment with Co-operative Common- 
wealth he "became very much wrought up about it." 


Home also remembered the denunciation Hemingway as- 
sembled and optimistically offered to several Chicago news- 
papers. "I know that none of them would touch it," Home 
said, adding, quite rightly, that "Mr. Parker was riding 
pretty high at that time and the papers probably thought he 
was too hot to handle." Hemingway continued at the 
magazine into the spring of 1921. He had met Hadley 
Richardson, whom he would marry in September she had 
come to Chicago from St. Louis to visit Kate Smith, a class- 
mate and close friend and he was neither personally un- 
happy nor ethically desperate about his job. He worked 
hard, both at the office and in the evenings. He was writing 
constantly, stories and articles that were rejected monoton- 
ously by American magazines, avant garde experiments 
such as those accepted by the Double -Dealer, and features 
and editorials for his employers. "I tried to write, on their 
time, all the time," Hemingway once explained. He sent a 
few articles up to Toronto, consolidating his single promis- 
ing alliance in journalism. Cranston welcomed his contri- 
butions. He bought them promptly for the Star Weekly. 
For a time he even elevated Hemingway to the dignity of 
a personal column. 

Three of Hemingway's seven Star Weekly articles in 
1921 were printed as three-column, rectangular boxes with 
his centrally-placed by-line in bold-face type only slightly 
smaller than the twelve-point, single line titles, drawn from 
the particular material, with which the columns were 
headed. 12 Cranston presented a fourth article in essentially 
the same format, retaining the large, single line caption and 
the three-column box, this time with Hemingway's name in 
small, conventional Star Weekly by-line type at the head of 
the left-hand column. 13 Another of his stories was given the 
identical box presentation with a four-line caption. 14 Crans- 
ton further stressed the columnist role by using several of 
these five articles on the same page of their respective is- 


sues; there was even an ironic consistency in the regularity 
with which the Star Weekly misspelled his by-line as 
"Hemmingway." 15 

Hemingway was as pleased as Cranston with the arrange- 
ment. When it became clear early in 1921 that the Co- 
operative Commonwealth was a dead end, Y. K. Smith 
had taken him around to Critchfield's, the Chicago adver- 
tising agency where both he and Sherwood Anderson, as 
well as Don Wright, had all worked at one time or another. 
Roy Dickey, the copy chief, had no jobs available, and he 
noticed that Hemingway at least pretended a lack of con- 
cern. He told Dickey he already had a job, "supplying a 
column," Dickey remembered, to the Toronto Star. This 
was in part bravado, since the financial return on these oc- 
casional columns was minute, but he could take legitimate 
satisfaction in the prominence Cranston gave to whatever 
he received. It was an encouraging antidote to the otherwise 
consistent rejection. The freedom Cranston allowed his 
free-lance staff was particularly refreshing after the slanted 
fraud of Co-operative Commonwealth, and, at the other 
extreme, the doctrinaire principles of Art enunciated in the 
nightly sessions at the apartment. A columnist's license was 
a fine safety valve for Hemingway in 1921. 

Hemingway's seven articles for the Star Weekly in 1921 
they averaged about a thousand words apiece reflect, 
inevitably in so subjective a newspaperman, the influence 
of the months he spent in the United States after leaving 
Toronto in the spring of 1920. Two of his stories dealt 
specifically with the Chicago underworld. All of them 
made at least indirect use of such American themes as big 
league baseball, the Muscle Shoals debate, national vacation 
habits, and various aspects of the American character which 


would increase Canadian convictions about the vulgarities 
of their neighbors. Hemingway had showed from the be- 
ginning, in his high school parodies as well as his first work 
for Cranston in 1920, an instinctive sense of audience tastes. 
His work for Co-operative Commonwealth had increased 
this natural capacity. He was careful to locate a Toronto 
angle for each of his 1921 articles. 

There was an element in this journalistic facility, how- 
ever, which went beyond the casual expertness of voca- 
tional instinct and experience. Hemingway's commitment 
to satire, previously no more than a recurrent feature of 
his journalism, was now definite and apparent. His impulse 
toward irony, evident in his immediate affinity for Ring 
Lardner, had probably been checked, though never in- 
hibited, in Kansas City. The atmosphere of both the Star 
and the prosperous Midwestern city as a whole, after all, 
was primarily one of literate optimism. Neither William 
Rockhill Nelson nor his heirs and editors saw life in a sar- 
donic way. The letters and postcards Hemingway sent 
home from Italy in 1918 showed that his excitement at first 
overcame any tendency toward skepticism about the war. 
Later, after he had been wounded, his attitude began to 
change. His satiric talent required more maturity and ex- 
perience than he could have possessed in 1918. It also re- 
quired a sustained encounter with provocatively deceitful 
situations. This encounter occurred in a variety of ways in 
northern Michigan and in Chicago, and in Toronto itself, 
from 1919 through 1921. 

There was a new sophistication in Hemingway's humor. 
It even permitted him to inject burlesque into his out-of- 
doors material, relieving what had often been the solemnity 
of the enthusiast. In May he sent Cranston a column about 
American resorts. 16 His theme was that the best guarantee 
of a long, healthy life was to violate the traditional Ameri- 
can insistence on annual vacations. He described several 


typical summer colonies. "Beautiful Lake Flyblow," he 
wrote, "nestles like a plague spot in the heart of the great 
north woods. All around it rise the majestic hills. Above it 
towers the majestic sky. On every side of it is the majestic 
shore. The shore is lined with majestic dead fish dead of 

Most of his wit was more specifically critical than his 
sketches of Smiling Lake Wah Wah and Picturesque Bum 
View. His first column, published on February 19, 1921, 
was organized on the hypothesis that what he called "public 
entertainers" statesmen, politicians, newspapers, artists, 
and athletes could be advantageously traded between na- 
tions as players are traded in professional baseball. 17 He 
visualized "the biggest literary deal of the decade . . . trans- 
ferring Anatole France, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Vol- 
taire from France to the United States in exchange for 
Harold Bell Wright, Owen Johnson, Robert W. Chambers 
and $800,000 in gold." He satirized the complacent ignor- 
ance of newspapermen. "Rousseau and Voltaire, whose first 
name could not be learned at a late hour, are dead." 

In another long column about the farce of American 
prohibition, printed under the caption, "Chicago Never 
Wetter Than It Is Today," Hemingway described a char- 
acteristic "members only" speakeasy, at which, he said, 
"there has never been any record of anyone being black 
balled," and went on to mock the entire experiment. 18 
"There are eight federal prohibition enforcement officers 
in Chicago. Four of them are doing office work, the other 
four are guarding a warehouse." His whole tone, in fact, 
indicated a hostility to contemporary America that went 
beyond the necessities of flattering Toronto readers with 
tales of American inferiority. He talked often to his friends 
in the Smith group about his eagerness and determination 
to get back to Europe. His restlessness covered almost every 
aspect of the United States. Even what he had seen of 


American soldiers overseas contributed to his jaundice. One 
night in Chicago he tried to explain to Y. K. Smith the 
difference between the American and Italian temperaments. 
Characteristically, his metaphor was war, and he discussed 
the humiliation of the Caporetto defeat for Italian individual 
and national pride. Then he imagined American soldiers 
after such a catastrophe. "At this point," he told Smith, 
4 'four of them would present themselves as a quartet, billed 
as The Caporetto Kids." 

Hemingway clarified this distaste for American insensi- 
tivity and provincial arrogance in one of the paragraphs of 
his fantasy about trading international figures. He described 
the ceremonies in Stratford that would follow the purchase 
of Shakespeare's citizenship by the United States. "The 
little English town on the Avon," he wrote, "was decked 
with American flags and all the buildings were placarded. 
We Wanted Bill, and We Got Him, and Yea Bill! You 
Brought Home the Bacon were the legends on some of the 
placards. Floats were borne in a parade depicting Shake- 
speare wearing the clothes of a widely advertised American 
tailor and bearing this sign: Big Bill Shakespeare One 
Hundred Per Cent. American." 19 

His satire often contained cheap and easy elements, since 
it was sometimes written in haste and with the vocational 
cynicism inevitable after his Co-operative Commonwealth 
chores. Occasionally, too, as in a long, dull analysis of the 
Muscle Shoals controversy, his paragraphs were the bored, 
automatic contrivances and lazy cliches of a hack journal- 
ist. 20 His writing as well as his attitudes could be affected 
by his study of American fiction markets and techniques. 
A May story about a Chicago killing confirms in essence at 
least a vague recollection by his friends at the Smith apart- 
ment that he was trying to sell short stories in 1920 and 
1921 to the pulp magazine Argosy. Unlike most of 


ingway's journalism, the dispatch would be unrecognizable 
as his were it not for the by-line. 

Anthony D'Andrea, pale and spectacled, defeated candi- 
date for alderman of the 19th ward, Chicago, stepped out 
of the closed car in front of his residence and holding an 
automatic pistol in his hand, backed gingerly up the steps. 

Reaching back with his left hand to press the door bell, 
he was blinded by two red jets of flame from the window 
of the next apartment, heard a terrific roar and felt himself 
clouted sickeningly in the body with the shock of the slugs 
from the sawed-off shot gun. 21 

The article indicated his capacity for stock language and 
stale melodrama. The Muscle Shoals story showed another 
alternative of newspaper work, a degeneration of his im- 
aginative vitality into mechanical competence. These were 
the two extremes, tempting and secure, in which most 
gifted young writers foundered when they chose journal- 
ism as an apprenticeship. This was bread and butter writing, 
commendable in a newly married man but a symptomatic 
warning for an ambitious writer. 

He and Hadley Richardson had been married, in fact, 
for only a little over two months when the Muscle Shoals 
article appeared. They were married in September in Hor- 
ton Bay. The wedding party included most of Heming- 
way's oldest friends Carl Edgar, Bill Smith, Brumback, 
and Kate Smith. Since his bride, a gifted pianist who sym- 
pathized with his restlessness, was as anxious as he to go to 
Europe, Hemingway renewed his efforts to arrange some 
solution that would get them abroad. His determination to 
escape America must have been strengthened by another 
ceremony he attended that autumn, this one in Chicago on 
November 20, 1921. General Armando Diaz presented 
Hemingway with Italy's Medaglia d'Argento al Valore 


Militaire and with the Croce ad Merito di Guerra. Gregory- 
Clark, the Star Weekly's feature editor, who had always 
been skeptical of Hemingway's Italian war experiences, 
automatically turned the medals on edge, to check the in- 
scriptions, when Hemingway showed them to him in 
Toronto the next month. "As long as I live," Clark wrote 
in 1950, "I shall never forget the cold chill that leaped out, 
radiating, from my back and over my shoulders and into 
my cheeks. For on the edge was inscribed: 'Tenente Er- 
nesto Hemingway/ " 

Hemingway and his wife spent the late fall of 1921 in 
Toronto. His final Star Weekly article that year, published 
on December 17, was a return to the deft humor of per- 
sonal journalism rather than the pulp techniques of the 
D'Andrea killing. 22 Cranston again set up the material as a 
column, with the caption On Weddynge Gyftes in 
large, Old English type. There was a sketch of a troubled 
bride and groom staring at a group of wedding presents that 
consisted solely of traveling clocks. Beneath the drawing 
Hemingway began his wry lament with some verse written 
in what his lead paragraph called "the best of the late 1921 

Three traveling clocks 


On the mantelpiece 


But the young man is starving. 

This "unpersonal protest against wedding gifts as an 
institution" was an illustration of the kind of lively talent 
that now made possible an arrangement by which he and 
his wife went abroad for the next twenty months. A week 
before the wedding gifts story was published, Hemingway 
was "off to Europe to become roving correspondent for the 


Star, with headquarters in Paris." 23 He went under the spon- 
sorship of John Bone, managing editor of the Daily Star, 
although for a time his overseas correspondence appeared 
exclusively in the Star Weekly. Bone had noticed the 
quality of Hemingway's feature work for Cranston in 1920 
and 1921; the young American had also done a little routine 
reporting for the city desk in 1921. The assignment gave 
Hemingway almost complete freedom of movement and a 
virtually unlimited choice of material. The Star agreed to 
pay regular space rates for all the stories they printed, 
as well as their correspondent's expenses in getting the 

It was from the Hemingways' point of view an ideal 
solution. Backed by a little money of their own to tide them 
over between the periodic settlement of the Star's account, 
they would certainly be able to get by financially. Consid- 
ering that he was not yet twenty-three, it was an en- 
couraging testimonial to the reputation he had achieved in 
Toronto and to the confidence which Bone, an unsenti- 
mental, exacting editor, placed in him. 24 Like the earlier 
steps in his apprenticeship, it was an appropriate extension 
of his development. He required the liberty of such an as- 
signment, away from the Chicago and Toronto atmospheres 
of markets and slanted journalese and feverish dilettantism. 
Years later he told his friend Harvey Breit of the New 
York Times that he had never been able to work well when 
he was bored. 25 He was in 1921 thoroughly bored with 
North America. One reason his Star Weekly output had 
been as low as it was that year, according to Cranston, was 
an additional indication of his need for the creative at- 
mosphere of Paris; he "spent much of his time," Cranston 
said, "working on his fiction." 

Sherwood Anderson, of course, was the one man who 
could most appreciate Hemingway's sensations about the 
forthcoming escape to Europe. The older writer had him- 


self just returned from his first trip abroad. His conversa- 
tion was full of the opportunity for literary and cultural 
enrichment which existed in Paris. Anderson later said that 
his most vivid memory of Hemingway was a scene which 
occurred just before the latter left. Hemingway packed all 
the canned food from his and Hadley's apartment into a 
knapsack and brought it around to Anderson the night be- 
fore they went. "That was a nice idea," Anderson wrote in 
his Memoirs, "bringing thus to a fellow scribbler the food 
he had to abandon. ... I remember his coming up the stairs, 
a magnificent broad-shouldered man, shouting as he 
came." 26 Hemingway's compulsion to go to Europe was a 
genuine one. The mass expatriation of young American 
artists had not yet begun. There was nothing imitative in 
his impulse toward Paris. It was at that moment a necessity 
in his personal and artistic life. "Greg," he said impatiently 
to his friend Gregory Clark about this time in Toronto, 
"you're going to peter out your life on a warm hearth- 
stone." Hemingway had to be moving on, physically and 



"A friend of mine and a very delightful 
man, Ernest Hemingway, and his wife 
are leaving for Pans. ..." 


The Hemingways sailed for Europe on December 8, 
armed with letters of introduction from Anderson. They 
were also preceded by a note he had sent at the end of 
November to Lewis Galantiere, a young Chicagoan inter- 
ested in the arts and then working for the American Sec- 
tion of the International Chamber of Commerce. Anderson 
was very generous, speaking of Hemingway as "a young 
fellow of extraordinary talent." He did not hesitate to 
launch his friend with the same extravagance he would 
have employed a few months earlier on a new account for 
the Critchfield agency; "he has been a quite wonderful 
newspaper man," Anderson told Galantiere. He also added 
the certification that was apparently already required in the 
presentation of young Americans bound for alcoholic Paris. 
"He is not like [Harold] Stearns." 

As if to confirm this assurance of sobriety, the Heming- 
ways traveled not by way of Cherbourg and a boat train to 
the capital, but by the roundabout route to Spain and then 
slowly north by rail to France. They were enormously ex- 
cited by the whole trip. "You ought to see the Spanish 
coast," Hemingway wrote back to the Andersons. 2 "Big 


brown mountains looking like tired dinosaurs slumped 
down into the sea." He described the scene carefully, using 
his correspondence, as has frequently been his custom, for 
a kind of trial run of prose effects. It was a thoughtful, care- 
fully composed letter; as such it constituted a very graceful 
compliment to Anderson. 

They settled temporarily at the Hotel Jacob, where 
Galantiere lived. During the next few days they were too 
busy even to mail Anderson's letters of introduction. Hem- 
ingway was very happy to be back in Paris. "What a 
town," he exclaimed to Anderson. They went to the Dome 
and to the Rotonde, and, like all cheerful tourists, they 
thought things must be even cheaper than when the Ander- 
sons had been there in 1920. Soon, Hemingway told the 
Andersons, he would send out the letters of introduction, 
"like launching a flock of ships." In the meantime he had 
already begun his first dispatch. "I've been earning our 
daily bread on this write machine," he said. The material 
he now began to send back to Toronto had the same inti- 
mate, impressionistic quality he had sought in the letter to 
Sherwood and Tennessee Anderson. 

This was in no way a breach of journalistic responsibility. 
It was precisely the kind of treatment the Star wanted from 
a foreign correspondent. That he should have gone abroad 
under the sponsorship of the Toronto paper was one fur- 
ther piece of occupational good fortune for Hemingway. 
The European bureau of a Chicago or New York paper 
would have required a routine of precise, factual reporting. 
There would have been a virtual prohibition against the 
kind of material and the kind of handling of that material 
which would form a profitable education for fiction and 
its techniques. The Star, on the other hand, wanted lively, 
entertaining dispatches, intimate and subjective. 

Like all Canadian papers of the period, the Star relied 
primarily on the English and American wire services for 


its daily coverage of foreign events. These were supple- 
mented, in the case of the Star, by its purchase of the excel- 
lent overseas coverage of the Chicago Daily News. A paper 
as nationalistic as Joseph E. Atkinson's, priding itself too on 
its metropolitan stature, was never satisfied with this com- 
promise. The situation became so intolerable to Canadian 
publishers as a whole that in 1927 the Canadian Press 
comparable in a limited way to the Associated Press sent 
a Canadian newsman to London as its staff correspondent. 

In 1922, however, the problem could be solved only by 
sending one's own employees abroad. Two or three papers 
in addition to the Star were at that time represented by 
correspondents working, like Hemingway, on a part-time 
basis. The Canadian resident press, such as it was, was not 
appointed with the intention of providing a better spot 
coverage than was available through the Associated Press 
and Reuters. Its job was either to supplement that coverage 
with the interpretive reporting generally disavowed by the 
agencies, or to provide colorful material about Europe, its 
people, and its customs. Anderson, in fact perhaps unin- 
tentionally had used an excellent phrase in his letter of 
introduction to Galantiere; he told his friend that Heming- 
way had been hired "to do European letters." 

Hemingway's manner as the Star's correspondent was 
followed precisely by Matthew Halton, who was the paper's 
very successful London representative from 1932 until 
1940. Like Hemingway, Halton's style was lively and in- 
formal; like Hemingway, too, he occasionally cabled spot 
news and background material of immediate Canadian inter- 
est. The bulk of both their dispatches, however, was mailed. 
David Rogers, another Star reporter, younger than Hem- 
ingway, who went to Europe in 1929 on the same part-time 
basis, described his own failure in the job as stemming from 
his misconception of his duties. "My mistake," Rogers said 
many years later, when he had become a prominent Cana- 


dian editor, "was based on the idea that a serious job could 
be done." The most extensive assessment of Canadian news 
coverage, a sober volume sponsored by the Institute of 
International Affairs, severely indicts Canadian foreign cor- 
respondents on the same grounds. 

"Those staff men who are sent abroad on special or roving 
assignments/' according to Carlton McNaught, author of 
Canada Gets the News, "seldom add appreciably to a news- 
paper reader's knowledge of significant developments in the 
countries they visit." 3 Although McNaught, writing in 
1940, did not deal with Hemingway's work, he might well 
have been describing the young American's stories. Heming- 
way's approach was essentially the type McNaught was 
condemning. "Their material," he concluded, "is most fre- 
quently of the colourful . . . variety which makes entertain- 
ing reading." McNaught quoted in confirmation a Halifax 
editor's conclusion that the Canadian correspondents of this 
period were "absorbed completely by the feature, human 
interest and freak stories and give no evidence of thinking 
about things that should be fundamental." David Rogers, 
the young reporter who went abroad for the Star in 1929, 
reached the same rueful conclusion. "They only wanted 
froth," he said in 1952. 

Froth, however, was precisely what Hemingway was 
interested in, froth, that is, in the sense of subjective, exposi- 
tory narrative evoked from responses and emotions and 
personal interpretations. One of his first stories, mailed to 
Toronto probably from Paris, but datelined Vigo, Spain 
and published in the Star Weekly on February 18, 1922, 
was a description of this Spanish harbor where he and his 
wife landed in December. 4 The story contained no illumi- 
nation of Spain's political or economic situation, but it was 
vivid and readable; its composition was also of far more 
value to him as an apprentice writer than would have been 
the presentation, for example, of an account of tariff nego- 


tiations between the American ambassador and the Spanish 
foreign minister. His lead paragraph was precise and meta- 
phoric. He used a phrase he had already tested in his letter 
to Anderson. 

Vigo is a pasteboard looking village, cobble streeted, 
white and orange plastered, set up on one side of a big, 
almost landlocked harbor that is large enough to hold the 
entire British navy. Sun-baked brown mountains slump 
down to the sea like tired old dinosaurs, and the color of 
the water is as blue as a chromo of the bay at Naples. 

Hemingway listed the wealth of potential catches in "the 
bright, blue chromo of a bay." His description of the pur- 
suit of tuna was clear and forceful; by the standards of his 
later work, however, it was still overwritten. In a few 
months, after working with Pound, he would be wary of 
such easy effects as "a silver splatter in the sea" and "a 
bushel full of buckshot." 

Two stories datelined Les Avants, Switzerland, fruit of 
a Swiss trip in January, 1922, illustrated this same concern 
with atmosphere and people, as well as the glib, knowing 
vernacular of the experienced traveler-newspaperman. To 
the Star Weekly, read by subscribers who were both curi- 
ous about and ignorant of contemporary Europe, he first 
mailed a dispatch that analyzed the cost of a holiday in 
Switzerland. 5 His story was an elaboration of the monetary 
crisis as a result of which "parts of the country that were 
jammed with a tourist population before the war now look 
like the deserted boom towns of Nevada." 

The second Swiss article, which the Star Weekly did not 
use until a month later, when he was already back in Paris, 
was much better, full of sly innuendo and sharp portraiture, 
and containing several deliberate touches for a Canadian 
audience. 6 He described the terrain, "wild as the Canadian 


Rockies," and explained that at each bend in the road were 
"four monstrous hotels, looking like mammoth children's 
playhouses of the iron dog on the front lawn period of 
Canadian architecture." An instinctive storyteller, as Crans- 
ton had recognized from the beginning, and himself ab- 
sorbed in the variety of people he was meeting, he took 
his readers inside the hotels, which "in winter are filled 
with utterly charming young men, with rolling white 
sweaters and smoothly brushed hair, who make a good liv- 
ing playing bridge." He characterized the other guests in 
a vivid sketch that was not characteristic of standard Star 
Weekly portraiture. 

Then there are the French aristocracy. These are not the 
splendid aristocracy of toothless old women and white 
mustached old men. . . . The French aristocracy that comes 
to Switzerland consists of very young men who wear very 
old names and very tight in the knees riding breeches with 
equal grace. . . . When the young men with the old names 
come into a room full of profiteers, sitting with their pre- 
money wives and post-money daughters, it is like seeing a 
slim wolf walk into a pen of fat sheep. It seems to puncture 
the value of the profiteers' titles. No matter what their 
nationality, they have a heavy, ill-at-ease look. 

The paragraph was an indication of the closeness with 
which Hemingway was observing his new milieu. He re- 
turned from Switzerland to Paris to observe some of his 
countrymen; a few weeks later the Star Weekly used a long 
story which it headlined, "American Bohemians In Paris A 
Weird Lot." 7 

The dispatch was a revealing one. It contained an inten- 
sity of statement and attitude not often found in journalism 
at the Star Weekly level. His point of view was happily 
chosen. In adopting the thesis that most bohemians are 


bogus freaks he was both gratifying the prejudices of his 
readers and permitting himself a deeply felt declaration of 
artistic principle. Hemingway lashed out at what he saw 
as the posturings of synthetic artists. At the age of twenty- 
two he was repelled by the "strange-acting and strange- 
looking breed that crowd the tables of the Cafe Rotonde." 

They are nearly all loafers expending the energy that an 
artist puts into his creative work in talking about what they 
are going to do and condemning the work of all artists who 
have gained any degree of recognition. By talking about art 
they obtain the same satisfaction that the real artist does in 
his work. That is very pleasant, of course, but they insist 
upon posing as artists. 

In his anger Hemingway momentarily lost his balance as 
a working feature writer; his final paragraph revolved 
around a name which must have mystified his Toronto 
readers. He told them that "since the good old days when 
Charles Baudelaire led a purple lobster on a leash through 
the same old Latin Quarter, there has not been much good 
poetry written in cafes." He translated poetic activity into 
a rather cheap idiom his audience might grasp. "Even then 
I suspect that Baudelaire parked the lobster with the con- 
cierge down on the first floor, put the chloroform bottle 
corked on the washstand and sweated and carved at the 
Fleurs du Mai alone with his ideas and his paper as all 
artists have worked before and since." 

He was in reality writing an editorial of denunciation, 
encouraged by his paper's requirements, his freedom as a 
by-lined writer, and his own convictions. Like any good 
editorial writer he had provided a brutal illustration of 
the Rotonde's habitues. He described "a big, light-haired 
woman sitting at a table with three young men." 


The big woman is wearing a picture hat of the "Merry 
Widow" period and is making jokes and laughing hysteri- 
cally. The three young men laugh whenever she does. The 
waiter brings the bill, the big woman pays it, settles her hat 
on her head with slightly unsteady hands, and she and the 
three young men go out together. . . . Three years ago she 
came to Paris with her husband from a little town in Con- 
necticut, where they had lived and he had painted with 
increasing success for ten years. Last year he went back to 
America alone. 

It was effective journalese; it was also a persuasive state- 
ment of his creed. When he summed it up "you can find 
anything you are looking for at the Rotonde, except serious 
artists" he had written his most successful dispatch as a 
foreign correspondent. Its lack of compassion was in part 
justified by its absolute, vigorous conviction. The Star 
Weekly gave it a full column and four banks of ten head- 
lines. As a declaration it was composed of equal parts of 
his incongruous debt to the mores of Oak Park, the pro- 
vincialism of his newspaper, and his own passionate belief 
in the seriousness of art. It also had a finished maturity of 
prose, and the intense interest in human situations plus 
the unscrupulous use of their biographies which makes 
more understandable his apparent transformation, during 
the next four years, from an obscure string correspondent 
into a finished technician. When The Sun Also Rises was 
published, in 1926, one of his Paris associates, Robert 
McAlmon, was surprised at its "sleekness." 8 McAlmon 
would have been less surprised had he known as few peo- 
ple apparently did the extent and nature of Hemingway's 
journalism between 1920 and 1924. It would be some time, 
however, before he wrote another article as eloquent or as 
vivid. The stories he sent to Toronto between its publica- 
tion and the earlier Swiss dispatches were much more typi- 


cal of his foreign correspondence. They were also more 
revealing as to his precocious determination to practice his 
serious writing and his growing impatience with news- 
paper work. 

By the second week in March, 1922, Hemingway was 
already writing Anderson that "this goddamn newspaper 
stuff is gradually ruining me." 9 He described his plans to 
"cut it all loose pretty soon and work for about three 
months." It was to his credit that he stuck with the Star 
Weekly chore. His frame of mind makes all the more not- 
able his ability to manufacture, as he did, journalistic drama 
out of the Wednesday luncheon gossip of the Anglo- 
American Press Association in Paris. He wrote about Paris 
hats "with a girdle of stuffed English sparrows," and he 
wrote from a colleague's reminiscences a breezy description 
of the recent papal elections and coronation in Rome. 10 The 
tone was completely appropriate for Anglican Toronto, 
with its mistrust of Quebec and French Canada. "They 
crowned the Pope on a plain pine board throne put together 
just for that. It reminded me of a fraternity initiation when 
I saw the throne and watched them getting the scenery 
out the day before." 

Although two months of feature writing had already 
exasperated Hemingway, and although he was thoroughly 
frustrated by the encroachments it made upon his serious 
work, he was still intrigued by the sensation of being on 
the inside. This was the tonic which enabled him to vitalize 
his foreign correspondence. Years later, trying to define 
the attitude he had held toward journalism, he explained 
that he quit reporting because "I found I would put my 
own stuff into it and then, once written, it would be gone." 
His determination to have three months for his own work 
in the spring of 1922 was painfully reflected in the stubborn 


industry with which he produced Star Weekly material in 
February and March, trying to get together enough money 
to exchange hack work for a sustained period of creative 
writing. He mailed nine articles back to Toronto during 
those few days. He had two dispatches in each of the first 
three March issues on the 4th, the llth, and 18th and 
three in the March 25 number. He returned to French dress 
for one brief sketch which contained most of the elements 
of his heavy March publication. 11 

His lead was labored and unconvincing, a pretext for a 
passage of dialogue between two Frenchmen who had not 
seen each other since the demobilization. Hemingway pre- 
sented them as they met by chance on a bus and discussed 
their domestic grievances. 

"Your hair, Henri! " said one. 

"My wife, old one, she cuts it. But your hair also? It is 

not too chic!'' 

"My wife too. She cuts it also. She says barbers are dirty 

pigs, but at the finish I must give her the same tip as I would 

give the barber." 

"Ah, the hair is a small matter. Regard these shoes." 
"My poor old friend! Such shoes. It is incredible." 
"It is my wife's system. She goes into the shoe shop and 

says, *I want a pair of shoes for mon mari. Not expensive. 

Mon mari's feet are this much longer than mine, I believe, 

and about this much wider. That will do nicely. Wrap them 

up.' Old one it is terrible!" 

The article as a whole was more reminiscent of the Kansas 
City Star than of conventional foreign correspondence. It 
had the inverted narrative and anecdotal quality; it was 
vivified by fresh and authentic speech. The dialogue was at 
one level merely slick and amusing, but it also had the pic- 
torial quality of a more experienced fictionalist. The lines 


with which Henri portrayed his wife were skillful char- 
acterization. Hemingway was also experimenting with the 
problem of translating rhythm and idiom from one language 
to another he would be widely praised for this eighteen 
years later in For Whom the Bell Tolls and there was a 
neat, unlabored irony in the final complacence of the two 
husbands. The total effect, however, was artificial. Hem- 
ingway was manufacturing the material to a formula, ex- 
ploiting the exhaustless reader interest in anything strange 
and alien particularly if it also increased their smug con- 
tempt for the strange and alien and he was enlivening the 
treatment with well-written dialogue and a lead that was 
sharp and startling despite its contrived quality. 

The second dispatch which was used that same week, on 
the following page, reproduced the technique. 12 The head- 
line "How'd You Like To Tip/Postman Every Time?" 
showed that the Toronto copy desk continued to grasp 
the essential appeal of his method. "Tipping the postman," 
Hemingway had written as a lead, "is the only way to 
insure the arrival of your letters in certain parts of Spain." 
The next step in the formula, once again, was to dramatize 
the lead. 

The postman comes in sight down the street waving a 
letter. "A letter for the Senor," he shouts. He hands it to 

"A splendid letter, is it not, Senor? I, the postman, brought 
it to you. Surely the good postman will be well rewarded 
for the delivery of such a splendid letter?" 

You tip the postman. It is a little more than he had ex- 
pected. He is quite overcome. 

"Senor," says the postman, "I am an honest man. Your 
generosity has touched my heart. Here is another letter. I 
had intended to save it for tomorrow to ensure another 


reward from the always generous Senor. But here it is. Let 
us hope that it will be as splendid a letter as the first!" 

The formula persisted as he returned to the material of 
his visit to Switzerland during January. The earlier Swiss 
stories, published a month apart, on February and March 
4, had both been datelined Les Avants; this one was mailed 
from or at least datelined Chamby sur Montreux, not far 
from Lausanne. 13 His subject was the Swiss luge, "pro- 
nounced looge," which he described in his lead as not only 
"the Swiss flivver," but "also the Swiss canoe, the Swiss 
horse and buggy, the Swiss pram., and the Swiss combina- 
tion riding horse and taxi." His exposition was provocative 
and completely individual. The article included several con- 
cessions to the Canadian point of view he was apt to ignore 
in his European journalism for the Star. In his lead he ex- 
plained that the luge was u a short, stout sled of hickory 
built on the pattern of little girls' sleds in Canada." Hem- 
ingway was characteristically lucid as he presented this new 
sport and its technique. 

You go down a long, steep stretch of road flanked by a 
six hundred foot drop-off on the left and bordered by a 
line of trees on the right. The sled goes fast from the start 
and soon it is rushing faster than anything you have ever 
felt. You are sitting, absolutely unsupported, only ten inches 
above the ice and the road is feeding past you like a movie 
film. The sled you are sitting on ... is rushing at motor car 
speed towards a sharp curve. If you lean your body away 
from the curve and drop the right foot the luge will swing 
around the curve in a slither of ice and drop shooting down 
the next slope. . . . 

The dispatch, dealing with a variation of their own be- 
loved winter sports, had an obvious appeal for Toronto- 


nians. Hemingway outlined the hazards of big, slow-moving 
hay and wood sleds along the run. "It is considered a very 
bad omen to hit a wood sled," he wrote. The understated 
humor provided a transition to his final four paragraphs 
about the lugeing skill of the British colony at Bellaria, on 
Lake Geneva. A long, single sentence paragraph was calcu- 
lated to stir imperial pride in the most nationalistic Cana- 
dians. "One wonderful sight is to see the ex-military gov- 
ernor of Khartoum seated on a sled that looks about the size 
of a postage stamp, his feet stuck straight out at the sides, 
his hands in back of him, charging a smother of ice dust 
down the steep, high-walled road, with his muffler straight 
out behind him in the wind and a cherubic smile on his face 
while all the street urchins of Montreux spread against the 
walls and cheer him wildly as he passes." 

The story had the energetic felicity Hemingway could 
give to his journalism when he was absorbed by the material 
or the sensation it aroused in him. His next article, one of 
the three which appeared in the March 25th issue, had the 
same vitality and freshness, here even better defined as he 
turned again to Paris for the intimate, skeptical treatment 
he always enjoyed writing. 14 His subject was the cosmo- 
politan's thesis that the real Paris is thoroughly hidden from 
casual tourists. There was neither obscurity nor padding in 
his lead; it was the kind of effective feature writing that had 
won him the European assignment. 

After the cork has popped on the third bottle and the 
jazz band has brayed the American suit and cloak buyer 
into such a state of exaltation that he begins to sway slightly 
with the glory of it all, he is liable to remark thickly and 
profoundly: "So this is Paris!" 

Hemingway pointed out the reality. "It is an artificial and 
feverish Paris," he wrote, "operated at great profit for the 


entertainment of the buyer and his like who are willing to 
pay any prices for anything after a few drinks." His sen- 
tences were thick with hostility. "The Buyer demands that 
Paris be a super-Sodom and a grander-Gomorrah and once 
alcohol loosens his strong racial grasp on his pocketbook 
he is willing to pay for his ideal." Hemingway's contempt 
which contained a good deal of puritanism was always 
for the tourist rather than for those who cheated him. For 
those who truly knew Paris, he maintained, there was a 
completely different and authentic night life. 

On gala nights there is a drummer at the Bal Musette, 
but the accordion player wears a string of bells around his 
ankle, and these, with the stamping of his boots as he sits 
swaying on the dais above the dancing floor, give the accent 
to the rhythm. The people that go to the Bal Musette do 
not need the artificial stimulant of the jazz band to force 
them to dance. They dance for the fun of it and they occa- 
sionally hold someone up for the fun of it, and because it 
is easy and exciting and pays well. Because they are young 
and tough and enjoy life, without respecting it, they some- 
times hit too hard, or shoot too quick, and then life becomes 
a very grim matter with an upright machine that casts a 
thin shadow and is called a guillotine at the end of it. 

The syntax of the prose and the romanticism of the atti- 
tude point to his debt to Kipling; the scene itself is an 
outline of one of the first episodes in The Sun Also Rises. 
Hemingway finished the article with another of the vi- 
gnettes of action and dialogue. His eye and his imagination 
were becoming increasingly engrossed with fictional pre- 
sentation. It was still overwritten in spots, and some of the 
phrases were merely the cliches of his material, but he made 
the scene and the characters a vivid piece of melodrama. 


Occasionally the tourist does come in contact with the 
real night life. Walking down the quiet hill along some 
lonely street in a champagne haze about two o'clock in the 
morning he sees a pair of hard faced kids come out of an 
alley. They are nothing like the sleek people he has just 
left. . . . Their closing in and a sudden, dreadful jar are all 
that he remembers. 

It is a chop back of the ear with a piece of lead pipe 
wrapped in the Matin that does the trick and the tourist 
has at last made contact with the real night life he has spent 
so much money in seeking. 

"Two hundred francs? The pig!" Jean says in the dark- 
ness of the basement lit by the match which Georges struck 
to look at the contents of the wallet. 

"The Red Mill holds him up worse than we did, not so, 
my old?" 

"But yes. And he would have a headache to-morrow 
morning anyway," says Jean. "Come on back to the Bal." 

The second of his three stories in the issue of March 25 
continued in a wholly different area his use of life in Paris. 15 
In the only European dispatch he wrote dealing directly 
with literature and one of the very few during his entire 
apprenticeship in journalism he discussed Batouala, the 
novel by Rene Maran which had just won the Goncourt 
Prize. Although Hemingway made two interesting refer- 
ences to the book's literary quality, he was approaching the 
story as a feature writer rather than a critic or fellow artist. 
He emphasized the newsworthy fact that Maran was a 
Negro serving in Africa and at that moment ignorant of 
the storm his book had caused in France. Then Hemingway 
declared himself on the non-journalistic aspects of the novel. 
It was "great art," he maintained, "except for the preface, 
which is the only bit of propaganda in the book." His atti- 
tude was a demonstration of his statement to Don Wright 


the year before, in Chicago, that a writer had to see and 
feel and taste his material. 

Launched into the novel itself, the reader gets a picture 
of African life in a native village seen by the big-whited 
eyes, felt by the pink palms, and the broad, flat, naked feet 
of the African native himself. You smell the smells of the 
village, you eat its food, you see the white man as the black 
man sees him, and after you have lived in the village you 
die there. That is all there is to the story, but when you 
have read it, you have been Batouala, and that means that 
it is a great novel. 

Hemingway's by-line had become a familiar one in the 
Star Weekly during March. He deserved a momentary re- 
lease from hack work. He was balked abruptly by a cable 
from Toronto that sent him on his first specific assignment. 
Anxious to get a coverage of the Genoa Economic Confer- 
ence that would supplement the news agencies' stories, the 
managing editor ordered him to Italy. On March 27th 
Hemingway arrived in Genoa. He would at least have an 
opportunity to take part in the backstage drama he had 
previously been able to recount only at second-hand from 
Paris press luncheons. He wrote and mailed one more article 
before he left Paris, a loose, padded, editorial-like expose of 
the myth of French politeness. 16 The Star Weekly used it 
on April 15th, recognizing its editorial quality with a bold- 
face, single line caption: FRENCH POLITENESS. Again the 
synthetic paragraphs of contrived exposition were even- 
tually balanced by a neat snatch of dialogue between him- 
self and a guard at the Paris zoological gardens. The park, 
Hemingway explained, was advertised as open to the pub- 
lic from eleven until three. 

"Is the reptile house closed?" I asked. 
"Ferme!" the guard said. 


"Why is it closed at this hour?" I asked. 

"Ferme!" shouted the guard. 

"Can you tell me when it will open?" I queried, still 

The guard gave me a snarl and said nothing. 

"Can you tell me when it will be open?" I asked again. 

"What business is that of yours?" said the guard, and 
slammed the door. 

On this note Hemingway left Paris and went south to 
Genoa. He was bound for a scene where he would find 
inflationary prices, and where foreigners were ringed by 
an aggrieved and militant nationalism. The ambiguities of 
diplomacy, and the brutality of fascism, however, were at 
any rate more rewarding material than the problems of 
insolent French officials at the Jardin des Plantes and aggres- 
sive Parisians on crowded buses. 

The Genoa Economic Conference was in many ways the 
most newsworthy of that rash of meetings by which states- 
men contributed to the optimism of the 1920's. Its par- 
ticular drama, as almost every commentator immediately 
pointed out, lay in the fact that Europe was going to sit 
down at a conference table together again. Germany was 
to be received as an equal for the first time since the war. 
Russia Red Russia herself would be admitted, on a very 
limited basis, to be sure, but her mere presence was dramatic 
and controversial. Canadian readers would find a material 
interest in the efforts to reopen commercial relations be- 
tween western Europe and the U.S.S.R. The blunt Amer- 
ican refusal to attend the conference added a further note 
of newsworthy tension. The meeting's obvious importance 
to the political fortunes of Lloyd George supplied additional 


Dominion concern. It was spot news. Hemingway's dis- 
patches were used by the Daily Star rather than the Star 

Five by-lined stories, four of them long and detailed, 
were published between April 10 and April 24, 1922. For 
the first time Hemingway cabled some of his material; on 
April 10 and April 18 the Star gave his copyrighted articles 
a secondary by-line, "Special Cable to The Star by a Staff 
Correspondent." The other three stories he mailed to 
Toronto in the customary way; underneath his by-line, as 
on his Star Weekly features, appeared the label, "Special 
Correspondence of The Star." It took at least two weeks 
for the mail to reach Canada. The first story he wrote, on 
March 27 several days before most of the press arrived 
was not used until April 13. 17 The Star headed it with an 
italicized introduction. The paragraph did more than re- 
mind subscribers of the paper's overseas services to its 
readers; it was also a timid editorial corrective to the out- 
spoken anti-fascist tone of Hemingway's knowledgeable 

Ernest M. Hemingway, a staff correspondent of The 
Star, who has been traveling through Europe writing his 
observations, is in Genoa to watch the progress of the con- 
ference through Canadian eyes. In the following despatch 
he describes the real danger of disorder resulting from the 
presence of the Russian Soviet delegation. 

In reality, however, Hemingway had been careful to 
point out that the essential threat to civic peace was from 
the Fascists. The well-documented point of view was more 
authentic than the material being filed in this area by most 
of his opposite numbers on the New York papers and the 
wire services. The American press sent home the declara- 
tion of Red menace their editors wanted. Hemingway, who 


spoke Italian and knew the country and its people well, 
gave a different picture. He did not take sides in a clumsily 
partisan sense. His story was a realistic definition of the 
actualities of Italian domestic politics. He hinted at the re- 
ality ignored by most of the newspaper men; he explained, 
straight-faced, that street clashes and riots normally involve 
two opposing groups. He shifted with abrupt effectiveness 
to an intimate, impressionistic treatment. 

There is no doubt but that the Reds of Genoa and they 
are about one-third of the population when they see the 
Russian Reds, will be moved to tears, cheers, gesticulations, 
offers of wine, liqueurs, bad cigars, parades, vivas, procla- 
mations to one another and the wide world and other 
kindred Italian symptoms of enthusiasm. There will also 
be kissings on both cheeks, gatherings in cafes, toasts to 
Lenine . . . and general shouts of, "Death to the Fascisti!" 

That is the way that all Italian Red outbreaks start. Clos- 
ing the cafes usually stops them . . . the "Vivas" grow softer 
and less enthusiastic, the paraders put it off till another day, 
and the Reds who reached the highest pitch of patriotism 
too soon, roll under the tables of the cafes and sleep until 
the bar-tender opens up in the morning. 

Hemingway tellingly defined the fascist psychology. 
"The fascisti make no distinction between socialists, com- 
munists, republicans or members of co-operative societies. 
They are all Reds and dangerous." His description of a 
fascist counterattack was mocking and alert, and melancholy 
in its prophecy of worse to come. He sketched the general 
nature of the group. "The fascisti are young, tough, ardent, 
intensely patriotic, generally good-looking with the youth- 
ful beauty of the southern races, and firmly convinced that 
they are in the right. They have an abundance of the valor 
and the intolerance of youth." 


As a dispatch reaching Toronto in a batch of conven- 
tional wire service material, the story must have startled 
his Toronto editors with the lucid, informed novelty of its 
point of view. Good newspapermen, they couldn't deny its 
professional virtues. It was more than well written. As a 
piece of reporting it was one of the first realistic statements 
about contemporary Italy. The fact that its author was 
twenty-two made it more remarkable. It was one of Hem- 
ingway's earliest anti-fascist enunciations, evidence of an 
impressive personal growth since the 1918 days when he 
was reacting to World War I in boyish, exclamatory de- 
light; there was an equivalent artistic maturing in the prose 
and narrative. The story, on the other hand, certainly 
couldn't be cited as a dispatch seen "through Canadian 
eyes/' as his paper was billing his Genoa coverage. Early 
in the assignment, in fact, Hemingway received from his 
home office what one of his Genoa colleagues later recalled 
as severe criticism "for not covering some important Cana- 
dian angle of the conference." He stayed in Genoa only 
for the opening of the conclave, leaving town long before 
the rest of the overseas press. His other articles were only 
infrequently as skillful though a trifle more sensitive to 
the Canadian point of view as his first one. On April 9 he 
went out to Rapallo with a "flood of reporters" to inspect 
and interrogate the Russian delegation. The Daily Star used 
his story the next day on page one. 18 

The dispatch was an uneven one, effective only when 
he turned to paragraphs of description and personal re- 
sponse. A mass interview, in an atmosphere as guarded as 
Rapallo's, did not encourage impressionism. The bulk of 
his relatively short cable dealt with the questions that were 
put to Tchitcherin, one of the principal Soviet delegates. 
Hemingway's boredom was evident in the careless dialogue. 
He also missed the drama of the first interview of a Soviet 
spokesman by the western press. Nor did he mention the 


ambiguity noted in the New York Times, where the 
late Edwin James recalled that Tchitcherin was a holdover 
from the Czarist diplomatic corps. He omitted the irony 
at that time a new one of a luxury hotel inhabited by 
Bolsheviks. On the whole the story documents the verdict 
of Wilbur Forrest, one of the New York Tribune's three 
correspondents at the conference, who felt that Heming- 
way's basic attitude toward his newspaper work was trans- 
parently clear. "He didn't give a damn about it," according 
to Forrest, "except that it provided some much needed 
funds and gave him an association with other writers." 

Much more interesting to Hemingway than the presence 
of Lloyd George or Tchitcherin, in fact, was the arrival in 
Genoa of Max Eastman. Eastman was covering the confer- 
ence for the Liberator. Hemingway wasted no time in 
showing the influential editor all the fiction he had with 
him. He was already so serious about his creative writing 
that he had brought with him from Paris, on a newspaper 
assignment which promised to be laborious and important, 
what Eastman later recalled as "a sheaf" of his own work. 
This was the fiction he had been conscientiously writing in 
Paris whenever he could get ahead of his Star Weekly 
chore. Hemingway and Eastman, the latter once said, 
"batted around Genoa together quite a lot." When East- 
man and George Slocombe of the London Daily Herald 
drove out to Rapallo to visit Max Beerbohm, the young 
correspondent went with them. Eastman felt their joint 
conversation was worth making some notes on during the 
ride back to Genoa. Hemingway, however, smiled and 
made a revealing gesture and remark. He tapped his fore- 
head and said, "I have every word of it in here." Eastman 
concluded, on the basis of "the extraordinary realism" of 
Hemingway's subsequent work, that the statement was 
literally true. 

In the meantime they had attended the opening session 


of the conference on April 10. Hemingway filed two stories 
which were mailed to Toronto and used on pages one and 
two of the April 24 issue. His response to the initial excite- 
ment was enough to make the first one a lively, detailed 
account of the scene in the Palazzo di San Giorgio. 10 His 
tone, as he resigned himself to his Canadian obligations, was 
mocking and cynical. He explained that the hall was "about 
half the size of Massey Hall/' in Toronto; a few paragraphs 
later he described the chandelier globes as being u as big as 
association footballs." His skeptical eye did not miss a 
plaque which honored Machiavelli. Although his colleagues 
from New York were soon writing of the conference as 
"a distinct success" and of "the temper of all the delegates" 
as "excellent and favorable to hard work," Hemingway 
preferred to linger over the appropriateness of this earlier 
Italian politician to the contemporary scene. "Machiavelli," 
he pointed out, "in his day, wrote a book that could be 
used as a textbook by all conferences, and, from all results, 
is diligently studied." He found a marble statue of Colum- 
bus "rather pompous," and he was even less impressed by 
the diplomats themselves. 

Delegates begin to come into the hall in groups. They 
cannot find their places at the table, and stand talking. The 
rows of camp chairs that are to hold the invited guests be- 
gin to be filled with top-hatted, white mustached senators 
and women in Paris hats and wonderful, wealth-reeking fur 
coats. The fur coats are the most beautiful things in the 

The Star certainly could not complain that his material 
duplicated its wire service or Chicago Daily News dis- 
patches. He mentioned his friend Eastman, who sat behind 
him "like a big, jolly, middle-western college professor." 
He described the head of the Canadian delegation, Sir 


Charles Blair Gordon, as "a little ill at ease," and cited the 
British delegation, derisively, as "the best dressed." His 
paragraphs began to have the exuberant excess of his high 
school journalism; he wrote that Joseph Wirth, Chancellor 
of Germany and head of its Genoa delegation, "looks like 
the tuba player in a German band." He caught the dramatic 
moment when all the chairs were suddenly filled save those 
of the Russian representatives. "[They] are the four empti- 
est looking chairs I have ever seen." 

Hemingway also stomached the opening day speeches. 
His second dispatch of April 10 concerned a late, defiant 
statement on disarmament by Tchitcherin. 20 Hemingway, 
one of the few newspapermen still in the hall believing, 
he wrote, "in seeing a game through until the last man is 
out in the ninth inning" gave a graphic account of the 
explosion. He handled the narrative skillfully, introducing 
suspense in the first paragraph, prolonging it through care- 
ful, successive passages, and then, midway through the long 
story, he reached his well-organized climax. 

Tchitcherin rose and his hands shaking spoke in French, 
in his queer, hissing accents, the result of an accident that 
knocked out half his teeth. The interpreter with the ring- 
ing voice translated. There was not a sound in the pauses 
except the clink of the mass of decorations on an Italian 
general's chest as he shifted from one foot to another. It is 
an actual fact. You could hear the faint metallic clink of 
the hanging decorations. 

Hemingway remained in Genoa another week. He sent 
out only one more story, a one-paragraph cable on April 
18, his contribution to the diplomatic alarm which followed 
the signing of a treaty, out at Rapallo, between Russia and 
Germany. 21 He departed on this final note of disillusion, 
his career as a Canadian foreign correspondent temporarily 


suspended. He had profited materially from the Genoa as- 
signment, in terms of story payment and expense money, 
and he had met Eastman and Beerbohm. His journalistic 
dossier, if not his reputation within the guild, was more 
professional; he had covered a major diplomatic conference 
for a metropolitan paper. His equipment as a writer had 
not been enriched, although the experience had obvious 
connections with his general mood of political disenchant- 
ment. As a reluctant newspaperman his most effective 
metier and, in retrospect, the most artistically valuable 
form was still the subjective feature story in any area 
chosen by himself because of his own response to it. 


During the late spring and early summer of 1922, as 
additional financing for a summer of travel and creative 
work, Hemingway mailed four articles to Toronto on the 
casual basis of his original free lance understanding with 
the Star. In May, after a day's trout fishing along the Rhone 
Canal, near Aigle in Switzerland, he wrote an impression- 
istic, full-column story whose over-all effect was as power- 
ful as anything he had yet done. 22 The eight paragraphs 
a little less than a thousand words were in the diction and 
tone of similar passages in the short story he wrote in 1925, 
"Big Two-Hearted River," and in the novel he began that 
same year, The Sun Also Rises. Lacking, naturally, the taut, 
frequently rewritten sheen of his fiction, the article was 
nevertheless visual and evocative. u ln the afternoon," he 
began, "a breeze blows up the Rhone valley from Lake 
Geneva. Then you fish up-stream with the breeze at your 
back, the sun on the back of your neck, the tall white 
mountains on both sides of the green valley and the fly 
dropping very fine and far off on the surface and under 


the edge of the banks of the little stream . . . that is barely 
a yard wide, and flows swift and still." 

Hemingway and his wife hiked over the St. Bernard 
Pass and down into Milan from Aosta. On June 24 a pair 
of his articles were published in Toronto, one in the Daily 
Star and the other in the Star Weekly the twenty-fourth 
was a Saturday which completed the examination of fas- 
cism he had begun in the Genoa dispatch of March 27. 23 
Some of the material was a rehash of the earlier article, 
newly dramatized, however, by the first of two interviews 
Hemingway had with Mussolini in 1922. 24 "Mussolini," 
Hemingway wrote, "is a big, brown-faced man with a high 
forehead, a slow-smiling mouth, and large, expressive hands. 
. . . His face is intellectual, it is the typical 'Bersagliere' face, 
with its large, brown, oval shape, dark eyes and big, slow- 
speaking mouth." The interview was competent and in- 
formed. It particularly impressed John Bone, the Star's 
managing editor; when Hemingway returned to Toronto 
the next year, in 1923, Bone planned to assign him primarily 
to interviewing celebrities. 25 

The portrait of Mussolini, however, was only a partial 
one at most. The interview also had some of the easy glib- 
ness which thoroughly dominated a Paris dispatch he 
wrote in late July. 20 The first phase of Hemingway's Euro- 
pean feature work for the Star Weekly, begun in February, 
1922, intensified in March, interrupted by the Genoa as- 
signment in April, and resumed briefly in May and June, 
now sputtered to a momentary halt. Hemingway's frivolous 
story about the great aperitif scandal re-emphasized what 
his six months' production had already indicated. He had 
virtually completed his apprenticeship. Journalism had com- 
pleted the process of becoming a writer. Leisure, and soli- 
tary, rejected experimentation would now make him a 
fictionalist. Had he continued to write feature stories for 
the remaining six months of 1922 or, indeed, for the rest 


of his life they would have been written, like this August 
12 article, tongue in cheek, to pay the rent and finance new 
travel. "The great aperitif scandal that is agitating Paris," 
he wrote in his lead, "has struck at the roots of one of the 
best loved institutions of France." He explained Gallic 
drinking habits, spinning out the commonplace exposition 
with a wordy anecdote about the celebration of Bastile 
Day. He turned with relief to his own work. 

The months as a free-lance contributor and part-time 
foreign correspondent had permitted him and his wife to 
live in Europe. They had provided modest financing for a 
few months of serious writing, and, above all, they had 
provided an invaluable reservoir of observed and experi- 
enced material. The qualities that give stature and immedi- 
acy to Hemingway's early short stories of 1924 and 1925 
selectivity, precision, uncompromising economy, deep 
emotional clarification were never dominant in his jour- 
nalism of this period. Each one of those characteristics was 
separately present in every article; sometimes there were 
paragraphs or entire sections which contained them all. The 
shaping of them into a single instrument that would domi- 
nate each piece of writing came only when he could 
concentrate without interruption on work he regarded as 
dignified and worthy. His position would remain a para- 
doxical and exasperating one as long as he continued in a 
role for which he had the capacity but not the tempera- 
ment, and which he therefore regarded with increasing 

Other newspapermen liked him personally and respected 
a talent they sometimes recognized even then as exceptional. 
"He was an erratic and obviously brilliant young man," 
according to Basil Woon, a Hearst correspondent in Paris 
in 1922 who saw a good deal of Hemingway both socially 
and, later that year, professionally. Many of them sensed 
that he was an alien in their world; that was part of what 


Woon meant by erratic. Trying to define the impression 
Hemingway made in 1922, Wilbur Forrest said many years 
later that he would have prophesied a career as "an artist 
painter instead of a famous novelist." Forrest remembered 
with impersonal distaste that Hemingway "lived in the 
Paris Latin Quarter and was among artists, a hanger-on at 
the Dome and Rotonde sidewalk cafes." Forrest thought 
of him as "some sort of genius in a garret." Hemingway 
himself, of course as his Star Weekly indictment of Paris 
bohemians demonstrated had nothing but contempt for 
the kind of life Forrest automatically assigned him. Momen- 
tarily liberated from hack work, Hemingway began in the 
summer of 1922 to build in the little magazines and in the 
literary associations of Paris the foundations of his future. 



"Gertrude was always right." 


In terms of its actual contribution to the final body of 
his creative work, 1922 was not a productive year for 
Hemingway. Although he told Anderson in May that he 
had "been working like hell at writing," 2 very little of the 
material of these months survived. Some of the verse he 
wrote was published the next year in Poetry and the Little 
Review, and he continued work on a novel which was 
never published. A large part of his time, however, was 
necessarily given to newspaper work, despite his anxiety to 
be free of it, and he spent many weeks traveling, in Spain, 
in Switzerland, in Italy, and in Germany. 

It was in these terms that the year was of primary profit 
to him. He was able to write effectively about northern 
Michigan because in 1919 and 1920 he had both renewed 
old associations with it and simultaneously seen it from 
fresh perspectives. His mastery of the European material 
came from the same kind of saturation in the atmosphere 
at several stages in his personal and artistic development. Of 
the fifteen stories in In Our Time, five dealt specifically 
with expatriation; they were the fruit of his European en- 
counters and observation in 1922, 1923, and 1924. 3 This 
same intimacy with Europe would give authenticity of 
atmosphere to The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms. 


From his expatriation there also emerged all the less tangible 
assets that come to a responsive young man exposed to the 
contrasts of a culture that is not his own but which illumi- 
nates the one he has temporarily abandoned. There was 
instruction to be absorbed not only from the newspaper 
work and from the countries and their people, but also 
from the literary associations that had been non-existent or 
abortive in Toronto and Chicago. Anderson's letters of in- 
troduction provided the immediate entree. Hemingway's 
charm and intensity extended the introductions into friend- 

"Gertrude Stein and me," Hemingway wrote to Ander- 
son in March, 1922, three months after reaching Europe, 
"are just like brothers, and we see a lot of her." 4 Miss Stein 
was equally pleased with Hemingway; she told Anderson 
that she and Alice Toklas were having "a good time" with 
the Hemingways and hoped "to see more of them." 5 Hem- 
ingway had also met James Joyce and read part of Ulysses. 
Ezra Pound had become both literary sponsor among the 
little magazines and sparring partner at the gym. He sent 
six of Hemingway's poems to Scofield Thayer at the Dial, 
and "took" a story for the Little Review. Hemingway's 
greatest admiration, however, was for Anderson's good 
friend in the apartment at 27, rue de Fleurus. "We love 
Gertrude Stein," Hemingway scrawled in pencil at the end 
of the letter to Anderson. 

Gertrude Stein herself recalled the appearance of Hem- 
ingway as "the first thing that happened" when she and 
Alice Toklas returned to Paris in 1922 from Saint-Remy. 6 
She remembered him as "an extraordinarily good-looking 
young man." His eyes, she felt, writing ten years later, 
when their friendship had become sour and bitter, were 
passionately interested rather than interesting, and he "sat 
in front of Gertrude Stein and listened and looked." Soon 
he began to talk, and they talked a great deal together, and 

PARIS 147 

Hemingway invited her and Miss Toklas to the apartment 
he and his wife had taken near the place du Tertre. That 
night Miss Stein read everything he had written up to that 
point. She did more than read it; she "went over" it. She 
rather liked the poems, but found the unfinished novel 
wanting. "There is a great deal of description in this," she 
told Hemingway, "and not particularly good description. 
Begin over again and concentrate." 

It was as good advice as he would ever get. His talent 
was substantial, as his newspaper work showed; like most 
young writers he was largely content to exercise and ex- 
tend the talent. That writing could be a laborious and 
exacting process had not previously occurred to Heming- 
way. He had worked hard, it was true, precociously hard, 
during those compulsive months in Michigan in 1919 and 
in Chicago and Toronto during the following two years. 
He had withstood frustration and rejection, but the con- 
ception of writing as concentration, as heavy, aching effort, 
was essentially a new one. Certainly he had never heard 
such doctrine from Anderson, the only writer of any stature 
with whom he had been in close contact. Hemingway, 
indeed, had mistrusted Anderson's apparent indifference to 
technical concerns. 

The fact that this was a misconception on Hemingway's 
part, which subsequent critics shared with him, did not 
alter the illusion's effect on his susceptibility to new and 
seemingly different influences. In his conversation, as, later, 
in his memoirs and reminiscences, Anderson enjoyed posing 
as a virtually automatic writer, one to whom his art was 
merely natural storytelling. Actually, of course, as the 
manuscripts of Winesburg, Ohio show, Anderson's stories 
frequently went through a series of complicated revisions. 7 
He successfully presented himself, however, as the roman- 
tic artist of instinctive creativity. To this he added what 
were for Hemingway the distasteful affectations of bo- 


hemianism. It becomes wholly natural, therefore, that 
Hemingway should have graduated so readily to Gertrude 
Stein who herself, on the other hand, had the greatest 
admiration for Anderson's work and should ultimately 
disavow Anderson with The Torrents of Spring. 

In 1922, however, Anderson was as much of a literary 
model and influence as had yet existed actively in Heming- 
way's experience. He had absorbed from the older man 
more than most commentators were subsequently willing to 
allow. Hemingway not only listened carefully to Ander- 
son's ideas in Chicago in the winter of 1920 and the spring 
of 1921, but also eagerly read what Anderson had pub- 
lished. As late as the fall of 1923 Hemingway discussed 
Anderson's work extensively with Morley Callaghan, the 
Canadian newspaperman and writer, with sympathy and 
understanding. Hemingway shared with Anderson an in- 
sistence on sex as a basic human drive. Like Anderson, 
Hemingway was drawn to the examination of youth and its 
distresses. They also shared a sense of the importance of 
emotion and feeling. "Turning her face to the wall," An- 
derson had written of one of his early characters, "[she] 
began trying to force herself to face bravely the fact that 
many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg." 
This is a recurrent theme in Hemingway, altered and made 
peculiarly his own by his insistence that the process is al- 
ways aggravated and controlled by the requirements of a 
fixed decorum. Even after their separation in December, 
1921, when Hemingway left Chicago for Europe, Ander- 
son remained an important factor in Hemingway's posi- 
tion. It was to Anderson that he wrote from abroad in the 
late winter and early spring of 1922, discussing his work 
and his ambitions; during these first months in Europe he 
also talked constantly about Anderson. 

Hemingway lunched frequently in Paris that year with 
Frank Mason, the local correspondent for Hearst's Inter- 

PARIS 149 

national News Service. 8 Mason was himself mildly inter- 
ested in serious writing. Their luncheons, however, in- 
variably included a third writer. The late Guy Hickok 
was for many years the Brooklyn Eagle's European cor- 
respondent. 9 He was a reporter of considerable experi- 
ence, an excellent journalist, and a thoughtful, imaginative 
man. The conversations at these luncheons invariably con- 
centrated on writing. Mason's most positive memory of 
Hemingway's interests during those first months of 1922 
was that he spoke repeatedly of Sherwood Anderson, and, 
more specifically, that he expressed many times his intention 
to model his own literary career on Anderson's. Three 
years later Hemingway told Scott Fitzgerald that his first 
pattern had been Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. The evi- 
dence of two short stories Hemingway wrote before he 
could have fully grasped Miss Stein's teaching confirms 
this. Both "Up in Michigan" and "My Old Man" were 
written earlier than the rest of the stories published in 1925 
in In Our Time. They can be fairly described as Ander- 
sonian. There were those who even accused Hemingway of 
having virtually plagiarized "My Old Man" from Ander- 

This was an absurd charge, but certainly such derivation 
of treatment as the stories indicate is from Anderson as 
much as from Stein. The treatment of sex in "Up in Michi- 
gan," violent, painful, and equated with naturalness and 
virtue, is wholly Andersonian. The language and narrative 
device of "My Old Man," as well as the material and point 
of view, are similarly reminiscent. Neither of the stories 
was dependent on Anderson's work in any compulsive or 
unhealthy way. Hemingway himself, when he learned of 
the accusations against "My Old Man," attempted certain 
distinctions between his own work and the older man's. He 
told Edmund Wilson that he didn't think "My Old Man" 
stemmed from Anderson at all, because, he said, "It is about 


a boy and his father and race-horses. Sherwood," Heming- 
way explained, "has written about boys and horses. But 
very differently. It derives from boys and horses. Ander- 
son derives from boys and horses. I don't think they're [the 
stories] anything alike." 10 Hemingway was positive about 
one thing. "I know I wasn't inspired by him." Even the 
idiom of Hemingway's letter to Wilson, written in No- 
vember, 1923, is now that of Stein rather than of Anderson, 
particularly in the last lines. 

I know him [Anderson] pretty well but have not seen 
him for several years. His work seems to have gone to hell, 
perhaps from people in New York telling him too much 
how good he was. Functions of criticism. I am very fond 
of him. He has written good stories. 

Hemingway's debt to Anderson continued to be both 
personal and artistic. Frank Mason recalled Hemingway's 
admiration for Anderson as being centered on the life An- 
derson led as much as on the work he produced, and on 
his attitudes as a writer as much as on his treatment of ma- 
terial. The Hearst correspondent, who never cared par- 
ticularly for Hemingway, also had the impression that the 
younger writer had been struck by Anderson's gift for 
publicity and the exploitation of his personality. Heming- 
way's relationship to Gertrude Stein was very different 
than this. 


The association between Hemingway and Miss Stein was 
foreshadowed, in a sense, even before they had either met 
or heard of one another. Hemingway's newspaper work 
had already indicated a characteristic which has remained 
basic to his temperament. He was always intensely inter- 
ested in how to do a thing. He was absorbed by method. 

PARIS 151 

Thus he had written in Toronto in 1920 a detailed discus- 
sion of how to catch trout bait, how to fix the bait on the 
hook, how to then locate the trout themselves; he wrote 
articles in 1921 about how bootlegging operated and how 
American gunmen worked, and, in 1922, how to handle a 
Swiss luge. This was one of his primary attitudes toward 
experience. It was fundamental to his interest in war, poli- 
tics, and sport. He would put some of this into his descrip- 
tion of young Krebs, who in "Soldier's Home" sits on the 
porch reading a book about the war. "It was a history," 
Hemingway wrote, "and he was reading about all the en- 
gagements he had been in. It was the most interesting read- 
ing he had ever done. He wished there were more maps. . . . 
Now he was really learning about the war." 

The same zealous concern with method is explicit in 
Hemingway's reaction to bullfighting, big game hunting, 
and the subtleties of guerrilla war. Once he even wrote in 
Esquire a precise explication of how to drive an automobile 
in a heavy snow storm. This concern with method gave to 
his journalism, as it would to his fiction, a vast air of 
knowledgeability. The concern was thoroughly genuine. 
Originally encouraged by the cool lucidity of his father, it 
was extended by his own instinctive curiosity and enriched 
by the exacting skepticism of such tutors as Pete Welling- 
ton, Lionel Moise, and, later in 1922, William Bolitho, the 
South African journalist. In terms of his serious writing, the 
aspect of his life, after all, with which he was most deeply 
concerned, it was only natural that he should be looking 
for some orderly method. 

He had found the beginnings of such a method in the 
style book in Kansas City, and in the counsel of the Star's 
editors. He was discovering other fluencies and effects 
through his feature stories for the Star Weekly. Sherwood 
Anderson, of course, offered no precise methodology. 
What one got from him were thematic attitudes and an 


integrity of vision. Gertrude Stein, however, was im- 
mensely concerned with method, both in her own work 
and in what she was writing and saying about prose. Hem- 
ingway acknowledged his debt to her technique very 
specifically in 1923. "Her method," he told Edmund Wil- 
son, "is invaluable for analyzing anything or making notes 
on a person or a place." 11 The method itself, or at least that 
part of it to which Hemingway responded between 1922 
and 1924, the period of Miss Stein's greatest personal im- 
portance to him, revolved principally around the arrange- 
ment and exploitation of specific kinds of words to repre- 
sent and emphasize a desired effect. 

"The question of repetition," Gertrude Stein said later, 
"is very important." 12 This was definite and tangible. How 
she herself had done it Hemingway could discover in her 
Three Lives; he could also find it, at a more involved level, 
in the volume she had just finished. "This Making of Amer- 
icans book of Gertrude Stem's," he wrote Anderson in 
May, 1922, "is a wonderful one." 13 His own work began 
to reflect the method. It was particularly apparent in "Up 
in Michigan," which can be regarded as a transition piece; 
the story is a blend, in a very loose way, of his joint obliga- 
tion to Anderson and Stein. The third paragraph of "Up in 
Michigan" "I had this conception of the whole para- 
graph," Miss Stein once said 14 is wholly a use of repetition 
for emphasis and clarification. 

Liz liked Jim very much. She liked it the way he walked 
over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to 
watch for him to start down the road. She liked it about 
his mustache. She liked it about how white his teeth were 
when he smiled. She liked it very much that he didn't look 
like a blacksmith. She liked it how much D. J. Smith and 
Mrs. Smith liked Jim. One day she found that she liked it 
the way the hair was black on his arms and how white they 

PARIS 153 

were above the tanned line when he washed up in the 
washbasin outside the house. Liking that made her feel 

The paragraph illustrates what Miss Stein had in mind 
when she later described Hemingway as "such a good 
pupil." 15 Hemingway, as part of his apprenticeship, per- 
formed an invaluable exercise through which he studied her 
method in the most intense way. He copied the manuscript 
of The Making of Americans for her, getting it ready for 
the publisher whom he swore he would find for it, and 
then he corrected the proofs. Correcting proofs, Gertrude 
Stein felt, was like dusting. "You learn the values of the 
thing," she said, "as no reading suffices to teach it to you." 18 
The way Hemingway used the word "liked" in the para- 
graph from "Up in Michigan" indicated what he had 

Hemingway's first use of the lesson was entirely conven- 
tional. "Liz liked Jim very much." Here, in the lead sen- 
tence, it says no more than one says casually about a dozen 
people each day. Then, by repetition, Hemingway 
strengthened and qualified it. He showed the variety and 
sensation of her liking. He displayed its immediacy. This 
was the quality Gertrude Stein had attempted to imbed in 
The Making of Americans. Hemingway also indicated his 
grasp of her declaration that the twentieth century was not 
interested in events. Midway through the paragraph, as 
his tutor herself did constantly, he gave the repetition a 
new element by using "like" as a different part of speech. 
Finally, as the paragraph ended, Hemingway conceived 
another variation, again an echo of Miss Stein's own sus- 
ceptibility to it. This was "liking," the gerund. "Liking 
that," Hemingway wrote, "made her feel funny." The 
paragraph, above all, had been sprung from a previous use 
of the verb in the story's opening lines. "He liked her face," 


Hemingway had said of Jim Gilmore, "because it was so 
jolly but he never thought about her." The way in which 
Liz liked him, however, was shown to the reader to be very 

Later, of course, Miss Stein became waspish about this 
sort of thing. "It is so flattering," she wrote of Hemingway 
in 1933, "to have a pupil who does it without understanding 
it." 17 She was indulging in her own variety of sour grapes. 
The paragraph from "Up in Michigan" refutes her belittle- 
ment. Sometimes, to be sure, Hemingway mishandled the 
method. It was a slippery technique, deceptively simple. 
His use of the verb "found" in the seventh sentence, al- 
though it had a value of precision, was clumsy and over- 
studious, Steinian in an awkward sense. There were also 
more serious aberrations of the method. "Mr. and Mrs. 
Elliot," Hemingway began the story of that name in 1924, 
"tried very hard to have a baby. They tried as often as 
Mrs. Elliot could stand it. They tried in Boston after they 
were married and they tried coming over on the boat. They 
did not try very often on the boat because Mrs. Elliot was 
quite sick." 18 Like an ugly caricature of the method, the 
line runs through the entire story. The repetition, smart 
and glib, did not qualify and enlarge the word and its 
representation. It was being used for effect in its most 
limited sense. The method had to be more than a trick; it 
was not designed for the aggrandizement of cafe wit. 

His debt to Miss Stein, clearly, went beyond such ele- 
mentary conceptions as this. She helped him discover not 
only what he was seeing, and how to communicate the 
sight, but what to look for. It was she who explained that 
he must look at his material, and at each new experience, 
as certain painters Cezanne, in particular looked at their 
own compositions. His own subsequent dictums on writing 
are often variations and extensions of what she had either 
told him or helped him to learn. He went beyond her as a 

PARIS 155 

writer in the same proportion that he was able to enrich 
her method by giving it a practical, muscular program of 
training; the program supplemented the fact that unlike 
Miss Stein, as critics subsequently observed, Hemingway 
had something to write about. He told a young writer who 
came to him for advice in 1935, and to whom he gave not 
only counsel but also a job as night watchman on his boat, 
that he should watch what happened when they went fish- 
ing. "Remember what the noises were," Hemingway told 
him, "and what was said. Find what gave you the emotion; 
what the action was that gave you the excitement. Then 
write it down," he instructed his pupil, as Miss Stein, less 
specifically, had instructed him, "making it clear so the 
reader will see it too and have the same feeling that you 
had." 19 

Hemingway then described the whole process of an ap- 
prenticeship with a phrase from the arduous months he had 
put into musical training as a boy in Oak Park. "That's a 
five finger exercise," he told the young writer. He also told 
him to do precisely what Gertrude Stein had attempted in 
The Making of Americans, in which, she said, she wanted 
"to make a description of every kind of human being until 
I could know by these variations how everybody was to be 
known." 20 In 1935 Hemingway rearranged the precept, as 
he did most of what he heard from Miss Stein, to give it a 
more available form. "Then," he continued to the young 
writer, "get in somebody else's head for a change. If I bawl 
you out try to figure what I'm thinking about as well as 
how you feel about it." Hemingway stated a principle 
which has permitted him to survive all the fluctuations of 
literary fashions. "As a man," he explained, "things are as 
they should or shouldn't be. As a man you know who is 
right and who is wrong. You have to make decisions and 
enforce them. As a writer you should not judge. You 
should understand." 


Hemingway was a good teacher because he had learned 
these things for himself, taking a method and a handful of 
rather arbitrary enunciations and shaping them to his needs, 
material, and objectives. Whatever he said about writing he 
knew to be true, for him, because he knew it worked. He 
knew how it was done. Hemingway had built in the interval 
between 1922 and 1935 an elaborate codification upon the 
blueprint Miss Stein had given him. He had taken it beyond 
anything she could do with it, and for this, of course, she 
could not forgive him. He himself always acknowledged 
his obligation with frankness. The greatest tribute he paid 
her was made in 1924, in a letter to her discussing the work 
he was doing. "[Writing]," he said, "used to be easy be- 
fore I met you." 21 He had always been willing anxious, 
indeed to work hard at his writing, but she had helped 
show him how to make it profitably hard. This became one 
of his fundamental beliefs. This was his attitude in 1935, 
toward his own apprentice, whose work, Hemingway 
found, was at first abominable. "Still, I thought, many other 
people write badly at the start and this boy is so extremely 
serious that he must have something; real seriousness in re- 
gard to writing being one of the two absolute necessities." 22 

Hemingway's relationship with Gertrude Stein has been 
interpreted in several ways. On the whole the definitions 
have fallen into one of two extremes. The early critical 
commentary saw him as a complete disciple. In this it fol- 
lowed the line Miss Stein laid down in 1933, when she said, 
speaking of the influence of herself and Anderson on Hem- 
ingway, that he "had been formed by the two of them." 23 
Later it became fashionable to disparage his debt to her. 
This occurred in part because few critics have been willing 
to study what she was doing in her own work. It has been 
easier to study Hemingway. He himself, as has been so fre- 
quently the case during his career, gave a more realistic 
and verifiable account of the debt and its variety of dis- 

PARIS 157 

tortion. Speaking of his obligation to both Stein and Pound, 
he said in 1951 that "they were both very kind to me and I 
always said so." He related this to the literary commenta- 
tors who are both too eager for and too wary of literary 
influences. "This," he went on, "is regarded in critical 
circles like pleading guilty at a court martial." He remem- 
bered that she had told him that he "might be a good 
writer of some new kind." She also reminded him that 
"no classic resembled any previous classic." 

This sort of instruction was available from various Paris 
sources for any young man as serious about writing as 
Hemingway. The burden of later identification, however, 
falls most heavily upon Miss Stein as the source. She was a 
better instructor than most writers, both by temperament 
and situation. She was not at least during the beginning 
oppressively the teacher. She could stimulate as well as 
lecture. She enjoyed instruction without overprizing it. 
Her salon had the effect of a classroom, but it lacked the 
trappings. Hemingway was still of an age in which he 
could respond to her as he had responded a few years 
earlier to Margaret Dixon and Fannie Biggs. He was anx- 
ious, above all, to be a pupil. 

Miss Stein's instruction, though it was generally given 
verbally, survives for our scrutiny in her own work. It is 
itself a clarification of the lessons Hemingway was receiving 
and the exercises he was performing. The direction of his 
writing, and his evolution from journalist to writer, is il- 
luminated by the steps she had already taken and the 
statements she would subsequently make. She talked con- 
stantly about landscape in writing, and tried to communi- 
cate it through her prose. In August, 1924, Hemingway 
wrote her about a story he had just finished, "the long one 
I worked on before I went to Spain where I'm trying to do 
the country like Cezanne. . . ," 24 Each phrase of the letter's 
sentences contained implicit citation of the tutorials he had 


attended. "It's about 100 pages long," he continued, "and 
nothing happens and the country is swell, I made it all up, 
so I see it all. ..." Miss Stein had been emphatic in her 
insistence that a writer must create rather than merely re- 
port. Hemingway was following the advice, in the compo- 
sition of "Big Two-Hearted River," and sharing with her 
the results of the instruction. 

During the first three years of their friendship, from 
1922 through 1924, Hemingway relied heavily, in a general 
way, on her judgment. Their relationship was never in any 
sense a collaboration, but he showed her his work and 
trusted her evaluation. When Robert McAlmon asked him 
in 1924 for a contribution to the forthcoming Contact Col- 
lection of Contemporary Writers, Hemingway rather diffi- 
dently sent him "Soldier's Home," adding that Miss Stein 
had read it and liked it. Earlier, when he and McAlmon 
were readying Hemingway's Three Stories & Ten Poems 
in 1923, Hemingway took the proofs and cover to Miss 
Stein before sending them back to McAlmon. During the 
first months of their association, in 1922, Hemingway ap- 
parently even typed out samples of his early journalism for 
her; among her papers is a typescript of an article which 
had been printed in the Star Weekly early in 1921, a year 
before he met her. 

Miss Stein, however, was not optimistic about the in- 
definite extent of journalism's contribution to an appren- 
ticeship. She felt that in addition to encouraging a writer to 
report rather than make, newspaper work also weakened 
him through its reliance on artificial supports. "News- 
papers," she said later, as she had often explained in earlier 
conversations, "want to do something, they want to tell 
what is happening as if it were just then happening." 25 She 
easily persuaded Hemingway that such journalistic imme- 
diacy was not a genuine immediacy. It was a primer lesson 
which Hemingway knew more intimately than she; her 

PARIS 159 

conclusions were painfully clear to him. She was very 
specific in her declaration that Hemingway should stop 
being a newspaperman. After reading the stories he had 
written before he reached Paris, Hemingway remembered 
thirty years later, she advised him "to get out of journalism 
and write as she said that the one would use up the juice I 
needed for the other. She was quite right," Hemingway 
said in 1951, "and that was the best advice she gave me." 

Despite Miss Stein's injunction, and his own anxiety, to 
abandon journalism, Hemingway was still economically 
bound to newspaper work in 1922. In terms of his educa- 
tion, of course, thinking still of Europe as the school in 
which he matured, there still remained some profit to be 
drawn from journalism, both as it provided a vehicle for 
constant writing and as it enlarged the range of his experi- 
ence. In the late summer of 1922, therefore, Hemingway 
resumed both his travels and his journalism. The one could 
not exist without the other. Back in Paris in August, after a 
long walking tour in Italy with his wife and an English 
friend, the Hemingways set out again. This time they were 
accompanied on part of the trip by another American 
newspaperman, Bill Bird, and his wife. 26 

The final form in which Hemingway's journalistic treat- 
ment of this German trip emerged was in some respects 
different from the earlier pattern of his European corre- 
spondence in 1922. It was the first genuine series of articles 
he delivered. The series also had a new publication history. 
He mailed seven articles to Toronto from Germany be- 
tween August 17 and the first few days of September; with 
the exception of one of the last stories, they were all 
printed in the Daily Star, rather than, as before, in the 
Star Weekly. The trip was undertaken, however, without 


any specific instructions from his managing editor. The 
articles were written to cover the expenses and, if possible, 
to put him a little ahead again financially. The fact that 
they were used by the Daily Star indicates that John Bone 
had been impressed by his Star Weekly feature work 
particularly, one imagines, by the most recent dispatches, 
those from Italy and that he was now thoroughly con- 
scious of Hemingway as a member of his staff. 

The stories from the Black Forest, however, could not 
have caused Bone to think of Hemingway as anything 
more than a briskly entertaining writer whose greatest 
virtue was that he happened to be in Europe and under 
loose contract to the Star. As a group, relatively speaking, 
the articles were hasty and indifferent, written out of the 
same approach that had dominated the more commonplace 
of the Star Weekly stories Hemingway had already written 
both in Europe and in Canada. There was as yet little 
evidence that Hemingway was reacting to Miss Stein's 
tutoring. Some of the journalism he wrote later in 1922, 
when he covered the Greco-Turk fighting, and the work 
he did for Bone in the spring of 1923, when he was sent to 
the Ruhr, demonstrate a professional advance. Actually, 
although Hemingway saw a good deal of Gertrude Stein 
in the spring and summer of 1922, their most profitable 
association came at the end of that year and the beginning 
of the next. "I am going to chuck journalism I think," he 
wrote her from Toronto in November, 1923. "You ruined 
me as a journalist last winter. Have been no good since." 27 
In August, 1922, however, his writing, insofar as his news- 
paper work is an accurate index, was comparatively pedes- 
trian. He was still content with his natural facility and the 
tricks he had now acquired through experience and through 
his new intimacy with experienced correspondents. That 
the trip was exciting and instructive there can be no doubt; 
the articles reflect his response to the new scene, even if on 

PARIS 161 

the whole they don't communicate the response in a 
memorable way. 

The most interesting element, therefore, becomes the 
fact that he never used this material in his fiction. To this 
extent it contributed to his increasing dissatisfaction with 
newspaper work. He discovered again that, for him, ma- 
terial which he used hastily for feature work was virtually 
useless to him for his own work. "On a newspaper," he ex- 
plained later, "... you have to sponge your memory clean 
like a slate every day." Foreign correspondence differed 
from this only in degree. Although one did not write for 
quite the same oppressive deadlines, he nevertheless had to 
write before he had really absorbed the experience, and, 
in feature writing, enough of the emotion had to be written 
into so that the material was muddied for future use. 

"In newspaper work," Hemingway declared in 1952, ex- 
panding his interpretation of working on the Kansas City 
Star, "you have to learn to forget every day what happened 
the day before . . . newspaper work is valuable up until the 
point that it forcibly begins to destroy your memory. A 
writer must leave it before that point." There was also an- 
other destructive ingredient in journalism. "In writing for 
a newspaper," Hemingway once maintained rephrasing, 
as he did so often, a dictum of Miss Stein "you told what 
happened and, with one trick and another, you communi- 
cated the emotion aided by the element of timeliness which 
gives a certain emotion to any account of something that 
has happened on that day." 28 

Thus the only two German articles which possessed real 
quality were a pair which Hemingway did not write im- 
mediately after experiencing the material. The first was 
mailed from Strasbourg on August 23. 20 It had been pre- 
ceded by three earlier stories, datelined from the small 
Black Forest towns through which they were hiking. The 
Strasbourg article, however, dealt with the plane trip which 


had first brought them from Paris to Germany. Commer- 
cial flying was still an adventure in 1922, particularly in 
terms of its dramatic swiftness. "The trip is ten hours and 
a half by best express train," Hemingway pointed out, "and 
takes two hours and a half by plane." His exposition was 
precise and visual, even its sentence structure reflecting his 
concern with the experience he was recording. 

Our suitcase was stowed aboard under a seat beside the 
pilot's place. We climbed up a couple of steps into a stuffy 
little cabin and the mechanic handed us some cotton for our 
ears and locked the door. The pilot climbed into his seat 
back of the enclosed cock-pit where we sat, a mechanic 
pulled down on the propeller and the engine began to roar. 
I looked around at the pilot. He was a short little man, his 
cap backwards on his head, wearing an oil stained sheep- 
skin coat and big gloves. Then the plane began to move 
along the ground, bumping like a motorcycle, and then 
slowly rose into the air, 

The second of the two superior articles was datelined 
from Kehl, just across the river from Strasbourg; like the 
description of the flight from Paris, it was written several 
weeks after the sequence of stories that followed their de- 
parture from the border cities. 30 It was the longest of the 
series, a little less than two thousand words. Hemingway's 
central theme was the fantasy of German inflation. He 
concentrated mainly, however, on the provocative tensions 
and griefs the situation was creating, and the shadowy, ugly 
types who profited from national catastrophe. The story 
was larded with quick vignettes of personality and attitude. 
Hemingway's principal episode was the gross phenomenon 
of the French stampeding across the Rhine each afternoon 
to stupify themselves on the excellent German pastry, now 
so cheap that it could be bought for less than the value of 

PARIS 163 

the smallest French coin. The limitations of space, the 
necessity of covering other aspects of Kehl, and the ab- 
surdity of shaping a carefully dimensioned episode at the 
Star's rates, prevented Hemingway from making a com- 
pletely successful use of the scene. It was the pastry shop, 
however, which stirred him; he sketched its proprietor, 
clients, and staff. "The place was jammed with French 
people of all ages and descriptions," he noticed, "all gorg- 
ing cakes, while a young girl in a pink dress, silk stockings, 
with a pretty, weak face and pearl earrings in her ears took 
as many of their orders for fruit and vanilla ices as she could 
fill. She didn't seem to care very much whether she filled 
the orders or not. There were soldiers in town and she kept 
going over to look out of the window." Meanwhile, Hem- 
ingway saw, profiteers' cars raced by in the street, raising 
clouds of dust, and "inside the pastry shop young French 
hoodlums swallowed their last cakes and French mothers 
wiped the sticky mouths of their children." It was sym- 
bolically valid and powerful; "it gave you," he wrote, "a 
new aspect on exchange." 

In the meantime the first three articles had been printed 
in the Daily Star. The stories presented the chronology of 
the Hemingways' movements after leaving Strasbourg and 
Kehl. They had been joined by Bird and his wife, and had 
traveled south to Freiburg. The Americans spent four days 
there; Hemingway's first German dispatch, datelined from 
Freiburg on August 17, dealt more prosaically than in the 
subsequent description of the pastry shop with Germany's 
financial chaos. 31 The story's looseness resulted from Hem- 
ingway's failure to make this a consistent structural quality. 
He padded the article carelessly with paragraphs of statisti- 
cal summary and hearsay comments on other parts of 
Germany; he introduced a secondary theme, the current 
hostility to foreigners, which ran confusingly in and out of 
the narrative. The single most effective section was a de- 


scription of Freiburg, a reminder that Miss Stein's first 
instruction in the spring of 1922 had concentrated on his 

Freiburg seemed to be going on very well. Every room 
in every hotel in town was filled. There were strings of 
German hikers with rucksacks on their backs going through 
the town all day long, bound for the Black Forest. Streams 
of clear water flowed in the deep gutters on each side of 
the clean, scrubbed-looking streets. The red stone gothic 
spire of the red stone cathedral stuck up above the red- 
tiled roofs of the houses. The market place was jammed on 
Saturday morning with women with white handkerchiefs 
over their heads selling the fruit and vegetables they had 
brought in ox carts from the country. All the shops were 
open and prices were very low. It looked peaceful, happy 
and comfortable. 

Occasionally, too, there were brief characterizations 
which invigorated the catch-all, Sunday supplement treat- 
ment. "We saw a girl in a coffee shop," Hemingway wrote, 
"eating a breakfast of ice cream and pretzels, sitting across 
the table from an officer in full uniform with an iron cross 
on his chest, his flat back even more impressive than his 
lean, white face, and we saw mothers feeding their rosy 
faced children beer out of big half litre steins." The article's 
essentially formless quality inhibited these strengths; as al- 
ways, when he produced newspaper work merely to meet 
a deadline or salvage expense money, Hemingway ulti- 
mately relied on his bright precocity. 

On the same day, August 17, Hemingway mailed another 
story, this one, if we are to believe the dateline, from Tri- 
berg, fifty miles to the northeast. 32 The article was fairly 
long, a little over fifteen hundred words; its principal theme 
was the familiar Hemingway irony of the contrast between 

PARIS 165 

expectation and reality. He examined the ambiguities of 
German sport and character with a wry vigor that was 
livelier than his Freiburg story, since he was at least dealing 
with sport, absurdities, and intrigue, but his basic treatment 
was the tongue-in-cheek wit that had marked his routine 
journalism since 1917. His disappointment in the Black 
Forest's lack of grandeur had been increased by the dis- 
covery that neither was it even possible to hike in solitude. 
"... you couldn't go fifteen yards along any of the wilder 
and more secluded roads without running into between six 
and eight Germans, their heads shaved, their knees bare, 
cock feathers in their hats, sauerkraut on their breath, the 
wanderlust in their eyes and a collection of aluminum 
cooking utensils clashing against their legs as they walked." 

The third of these articles dealing with the precise se- 
quence of their Black Forest experiences was printed in the 
Daily Star on September S. 33 It had a visually impressive 
dateline, Oberprechtal-in-the-Black-Forest, fifteen miles 
north of Triberg. The story's eighteen hundred words, 
which the copy editor split into eight columns that domi- 
nated page five of the Daily Star, did not rise above the 
meager, chatty level of the two earlier tourist chronicles. 
The article also confirms the suspicion that Hemingway's 
intense hostility to the Germans was distorting his objec- 
tivity as a writer. As a feature man for the Toronto Star, 
of course, objectivity was not a prerequisite; his success had 
come from the personal, intimate quality of his work. 

As a writer, however, his primary responsibility was to 
train himself in observation. An indiscriminate contempt 
for the German people whom at this time he classified in 
conversation as Boches and Huns would inevitably blind 
him to the complexities which normally allowed his subjec- 
tive treatment to be so effective. His story about Kehl had 
been relatively free of this intemperance; he had been able 
to detect, as a consequence, the valid symbol of the pastry 


shop. The three Black Forest stories concentrated almost 
completely on the traditionally unattractive racial charac- 
teristics of Germans, without variety or real persuasion. 
The articles began to have a nagging fretfulness. 

Two final stories completed the two-three-two publishing 
pattern of the series. Both were mailed from Cologne with 
an incomplete dateline; since they were printed on the same 
day, September 30, they were evidently sent together, 
probably about the middle of the month. They were an 
improvement over the previous three to the extent in 
which they exchanged the querulous complaint of the 
Black Forest dispatches for the more balanced, evocative 
treatment of the pair mailed from Strasbourg and Kehl. 
The Cologne article which seems to have been written first, 
since it dealt with the train ride from Frankfurt north to 
the Ruhr, had the closest resemblance to the petty antagon- 
ism of the Baden trio. 34 

Hemingway's hostility, stimulated in the Black Forest, 
was confirmed in the crowded railway compartments. He 
used a local analogy for his Toronto readers. "Traveling in 
Germany now," he wrote, "is exactly as much fun as strap 
hanging in an Avenue Road car during the crest of the rush 
hour." His illustrations were forceful and persuasive, better 
written and more graphic than his tales of the Schwartz- 
wald peasantry. Essentially, however, they displayed the 
same provincialism and youthful intolerance, and a readi- 
ness to embrace any evidence that seemed to document a 
conventional prejudice. With relish Hemingway piled 
anecdote upon anecdote. The sharp, slanted vignettes are 
prophetic of those sections of To Have and Have Not in 
which Hemingway satirized the rich and decadent occu- 
pants of the yachts in the Key West basin in 1937. These 
1922 sketches have the same crisp plausibility and expert 
narrative, blurred always by the easy satire of an intelli- 
gent, momentarily careless mind which is dealing with 

PARIS 167 

material casually explored. "You must understand," Hem- 
ingway would instruct the young writer in Key West 
in 1935, urging him not to judge. 

His final dispatch from Germany had fewer of these sub- 
jective intensities and glib ironies. It was both the briefest 
of the stories and the only one printed in the Star Weekly. 
Hemingway imposed restraint and professionalism which, 
while they sacrificed the entertaining venom of his denun- 
ciatory sarcasm, supplied a maturity that was appropriate 
to a temperate summary of the series. His point of view, 
however, remained belligerently anti-German. He launched 
a vignette demonstrating, he argued, "what [the German] 
is still capable of being." A Cologne mob had recently at- 
tempted to dislodge a huge equestrian statue of William 
Hohenzollern, "in a brawl that started to be a revolution 
and ended in a small sized riot." During the attack on the 
statue, Hemingway explained, a police officer appeared. 
"The mob," Hemingway reported, "threw the policeman 
into the river. In the cold, swift swirl of the Rhine against 
the base of the bridge the policeman hung on to one of the 
abutments and shouted up that he knew who was in the 
mob and would see that they were all punished. So the 
mob swarmed down and tried to push the policeman loose 
into the current. It meant drowning for the policeman to 
let go and he hung on. Then the mob chopped his fingers 
loose from the stone with the hatchet with which they had 
been attacking the statue." 

It was a monstrous anecdote. The only material com- 
parable to it in Hemingway's early career, appropriately, 
was in the brutal short story called "An Alpine Idyll," first 
published in the 1927 American Caravan. Here, dealing 
with the peasants who live in and below the Silvretta range, 
along the Swiss-Austrian border, Hemingway used an 
equally barbarous situation. His revulsion at the peasant's 
callous treatment of his wife's corpse was certainly an echo 


of the hostility which had been aroused in the Black Forest 
in 1922. Even the satiric title of the short story had the 
ironic distaste of his Daily Star dispatches. 


Their four-week excursion over, the Hemingways re- 
turned to Paris. The trip had enlarged the range of Hem- 
ingway's European background, even if it hadn't produced 
any consistently notable journalism. His hostility was 
fundamental and inflexible, in part the antagonism of a 
romantic temperament for what it conceived as a stolid, 
unimaginative people, in part a corollary of the anti-Ger- 
man indoctrination received in Italy during 1918. His point 
of view was to a degree a self-consciously belligerent one, 
a reminder that in his own mind he had seen far more of 
German-created tragedies than most Americans. His trip 
through Italy in June, only a few weeks before he went to 
Germany, had reminded him of the war's horror, both in its 
personal and national terms. He never responded to Ger- 
many, either to its terrain or its people, as he did to France 
or Spain or Italy. The episode nevertheless contributed to 
his understanding of contemporary Europe. Some years 
later, in an analysis of continental politics, he remembered 
what he had seen in 1922. "Germany," he wrote in 1934, 
"was never defeated in a military debacle." 37 He discussed 
fluently the absence of a successful German post-war revo- 
lution, indicating that the month in Germany in 1922, 
careless and prejudiced as it had been, was also another in 
the series of lessons he was receiving. One final assignment, 
before he completed his 1922 travels with a capable cover- 
age of war in Asia Minor, had a symbolic relationship with 
the German experience. 

On September 20, 1922, Hemingway was in Alsace, in- 
terviewing one of his great personal heroes. The political 

PARIS 169 

career of Georges Clemenceau had rested on an intense 
nationalism and a detestation of Germany. Hemingway had 
great success with the harsh old Frenchman, whose normal 
reticence dissolved under Hemingway's admiration and 
made him, Hemingway said, "for once very loquacious." 38 
He was bitter and violent in what he said to the young 
American and in the prophecies he made for Europe. Hem- 
ingway was delighted with the interview; it was a profes- 
sional triumph. Ultimately, however, it only compounded 
his distaste for newspaper work. The Daily Star would not 
print it. They mailed it back to him, "a great Canadian 
paper," Hemingway later said sardonically, and John Bone 
explained the rejection in a blunt note. "[Clemenceau] can 
say these things," the managing editor conceded, "but he 
cannot say them in our paper." 39 It was another useful foot- 
note in the variety of realities Hemingway was encounter- 
ing; it also pushed him one step nearer the abandonment of 



"... I read everything that I could 
understand [about war] and the more I 
would sec of it the more I could 
understand." ERNEST HEMINGWAY! 

Hemingway was back in Paris from the Alsace interview 
with Clemenceau by September 24, 1922, in time to attend 
the murderous fight at the new Mont Rouge arena between 
Siki and Carpentier. John Bone, however, permitted him 
little time to enjoy a Paris autumn. A day or two after the 
fight the managing editor cabled Hemingway to go to 
Constantinople for the Daily Star. A Greek army had been 
routed by the Turks; Smyrna had been burned. Lloyd 
George was calling upon the Dominions to support Eng- 
land's deeply involved position. There was, above all, a ter- 
rible fear that the situation might at any moment produce 
another world war. 

Hemingway was understandably delighted. The assign- 
ment was wholly different from Bone's last commission, in 
March, which had postponed his creative work and sent 
him to Genoa. He was enough of a newspaperman to be 
deeply curious about the dramatic struggle, raising as it did 
the age-old menace of Turkey invading Europe. He was 
literate and imaginative; his mind responded to the obvious 
memories of other Greek armies and other Eastern expedi- 
tions. The massacres and terrorism were eminently news- 


worthy. His absorption in war, crystallized in 1918 and 
since stimulated both by reflection and by innumerable 
conversations with his contemporaries, was reignited by the 
opportunity to observe a fluid, aggressive campaign. Listen- 
ing to English friends discuss Mons and the Somme, profit- 
able as it was, and assessing his own limited experience in 
Italy, were academic compared to the privileged freedom 
of movement of a war correspondent. He packed hurriedly. 

Before he left Paris there was a luncheon with Guy 
Hickok and Frank Mason; he discussed every aspect of the 
assignment with the two newspapermen. Years later Mason 
could remember Hemingway's excitement. He also remem- 
bered, more ruefully, that he was persuaded by Heming- 
way to work him onto the International News Service 
expense account, in return for any material he might send 
from Constantinople. It was purely an act of reluctant 
friendship on Mason's part, who had long since solved the 
problem of the Hearst coverage of developments in the 
Near East; his Paris office merely rewrote the English and 
French dispatches and cabled this version back to New 
York. Hemingway thus traveled south as the representative 
of a Hearst syndicate as well as a Hearst-type Canadian 
paper. He would have to see the war and its politics in 
vivid, communicable terms. It was, happily, that kind of 
war, and his own concern, of course, was with the men 
who fought it and the civilians who endured it. He would 
serve John Bone far better than a Balkan expert. 

Bone, on the other hand, although his conception of 
Hemingway's role was as a feature writer, did not hesitate 
to endow the young reporter with considerable status. "Mr. 
Hemingway," the Daily Star announced, in a preface to his 
first cable, u who fought with the Italian army in the great 
war, is well equipped by his knowledge of the Balkans and 
the Near East to cover this latest assignment given him by 
The Star." 2 In terms of the normal complexity of a Balkan 


crisis, this one was relatively simple. It lent itself, journal- 
istically, to feature treatment. Spot news breaks were rare; 
the assignment's news qualities were in the horror and 
violence which both sides had introduced, and in the large, 
vague clash of East and West, Moslem and Christian. The 
background of the situation was readily explained by most 
commentators as an early catastrophe of Versailles give- 

The cynicisms of diplomatic maneuvering made dismal 
reading to a generation which was bitterly realizing that it 
had not fought itself out of the pre-1914 entanglements. 
The governments of England, France, Italy, and Russia 
were plainly jockeying for position, offering short-term 
promises and some aid to the particular belligerent of their 
choice. English prestige and position were therefore en- 
dangered when the Greeks were badly mauled on Septem- 
ber 7, 1922 in Anatolia, in a decisive battle begun ten days 
earlier. The Greeks fled across the remaining two hundred 
miles to the Aegean sanctuary. Civilian refugees began to 
crowd into Smyrna, which was penetrated by Turkish cav- 
alry on September 9. On September 14 fire broke out in 
the Christian section of the panicky city. The Greeks had 
by this time turned the city over to the Allied commanders. 
Kemal Atatiirk rejected all armistice proposals, persisting in 
his demands for the return of Adrianople and Smyrna. He 
threatened to invade the British mandate of Mesopotamia 
if his claims were not granted. Constantinople itself didn't 
seem altogether secure against his army. 

This was the situation as Hemingway picked it up when, 
according to the Daily Star's dramatic preface, he "suc- 
ceeded in reaching Constantinople" on September 30. He 
promptly cabled a summary of the scene within the city. 3 
His three-paragraph cable, bolstered by a triple bank of 
headlines and the italicized editorial description of him and 
his assignment, occupied the two important columns on the 


left hand side of the Daily Star's front page. Even in the 
seventy-word cable he aimed for impressionism, creating it 
both by a string of positive adjectives "Constantinople is 
noisy, hot, hilly, dirty, and beautiful" and by a sense of 
tension in such familiar cabelese as "packed with uniforms 
and rumors" and "Foreigners . . . have booked outgoing 
trains for weeks ahead." His next dispatch, filed four days 
later, defined more clearly the approach he would use in 
these longer, mailed treatments. 4 

The story had as its lead the initial stages of the armistice 
talks at Mudania. Hemingway described the town as "a 
hot, dusty, badly-battered, second-rate seaport on the Sea 
of Marmora." He enlivened the sobriety of his basic theme 
with a mockery of the military which would be well re- 
ceived in recently demobilized Toronto, where the resent- 
ment of the English officer caste was almost a municipal 
characteristic. He also emphasized English and French re- 
sponsibility for the war; his generation's distaste for diplo- 
matic intrigue was evident throughout his entire coverage 
of the assignment. "The British wanted control in Asia 
Minor," he pointed out, "but Kemal did not look like a 
good buy to them." Hemingway moved on to what inter- 
ested him much more, the fighting itself and the two armies 
engaged in it. His summary of the campaign was breath- 
lessly perceptive and positive. "Kemal whipped the Greeks 
as every one knows. But when you realize that he was 
fighting a conscript army whose soldiers the barren country 
they were fighting to gain hated, who had been mobilized 
for nine years, who had no desire as men to conquer Asia 
Minor, and who were thoroughly fed up and becoming 
conscious that they were going into battle to die doing a 
cat's paw job, it was not the magnificent military achieve- 
ment that it is made out to be." 

Hemingway completed his broad definition of the several 
aspects of the scene with a description of Russia's role in 


the Near East; his aim was to provide a round-up of the 
backstage realities. The general tone of all his dispatches, 
in fact, was primarily realistic. He explored vigorously the 
political, diplomatic, and military aspects of the situation. 
His idiom, emphasis, and attitude were harsh and uncom- 
promising. He was not the easy sensationalist, finding scare 
headlines and complacent cynicism in every trivial altera- 
tion of the crisis; neither was he content with the wide-eyed 
wonder that was the journalistic stock-in-trade of so many 
American correspondents during the 1920's. He did not 
rely on actual or imaginary first-name contacts with the 
great and the notorious. 

The importance to Hemingway of the freedom and re- 
sponsibility of his whole foreign assignment for the Star 
he had now written more than thirty articles in six months 
and the personal growth that occurred through the Euro- 
pean experience, are verified by the adult quality of his war 
correspondence. He was troubled by the implications of 
the situation, by the revelations of new diplomatic inepti- 
tude and corruption, and by the threat to world peace. 
John Bone, an editor of breadth and judgment, described 
Hemingway's European work as "a special feature in The 
Star." 5 Hemingway was by no means an experienced re- 
porter. He had detoured or condensed the various journal- 
istic drudgeries that normally preface the assignments he 
received or created. Because of this, and because too of 
the kind of training he had received in Kansas City, his 
reporting was never wholly conventional. The content and 
treatment of his dispatches, by October, 1922, were gen- 
erally fresh and mature. They testified to a poise unusual 
in a young man of twenty-three. 

On October 5 he mailed a third story it was flown to 
Paris, actually, and traveled by ship from France to Canada 
which indicated both his sobriety of purpose and his 
thoroughness in familiarizing himself with the background 


of this fluid situation. 6 He focused on Kemal, the most im- 
portant single figure in the complex of intrigue. Although 
much of the material was picked up from the shop talk of 
his colleagues, Hemingway injected into it an imaginative 
vivification through analogy and characterization. He drew 
from contemporary politics a parallel which would be a 
meaningful one for the people of a Dominion city. 
"[Kemal] is now in something of the position Arthur 
Griffith and Michael Collins occupied in Ireland just before 
their deaths." Hemingway extended the Irish analogy. "As 
yet," he wrote, "his de Valera has not appeared." Heming- 
way argued that Mesopotamia was the critical acquisition 
for the Kemalists. "Whichever alliance Turkey drops clears 
the air very little, because the one big aim of the Kemalists, 
the one which they are being criticized now in their own 
circles for not having fulfilled, the aim which does not 
appear in any published pacts but that everyone in the 
country understands, is the possession of Mesopotamia." 7 
Hemingway's final paragraph was a blunt summary and 

It is oil that Kemal and company want Mesopotamia for, 
and it is oil that Great Britain wants to keep Mesopotamia 
for, so the East that is disappointed in Kemal the Saladin 
because he shows no inclination to plunge into a fanatical 
holy war, may yet get their war from Kemal the business 

Hemingway did not limit himself to the large geopoliti- 
cal issues. Remembering that his paper was being supplied 
each day with wire service cables, and exercising his par- 
ticular gifts, he filed on October 6 a long, full-column study 
of Constantinople. 8 "Old timers always call it Constan," he 
pointed out, "just as you are a tenderfoot if you call Gibral- 
tar anything but Gib." This careful, ingenuous accuracy 


was fundamental to his portrait of the city. His theme was 
the paradox of Constantinople's contradictory qualities; the 
description was an exercise in authenticity, tempered by the 
sensitive, romantic point of view which originally allowed 
him to recognize the paradox. 

"In the morning," he began, "when you wake and see a 
mist over the Golden Horn with the minarets rising out of 
it slim and clean towards the sun and the Muezzin calling 
the faithful to prayer in a voice that soars and dips like an 
aria from a Russian opera, you have the magic of the east." 
His next paragraph smashed the illusion. "There may be," 
he conceded, "a happy medium between the east of Pierre 
Lori's stories and the east of everyday life, but it could only 
be found by a man who always looked with his eyes half 
shut, didn't care what he ate, and was immune to the bites 
of insects." Hemingway strengthened the paradox with a 
catalogue of the inhabitants whom the city now sheltered. 
Its population was estimated at a million and a half. "This," 
he declared, "does not include hundreds of battered Fords, 
forty thousand Russian refugees in every uniform of the 
Czar's army in all stages of dilapidation, and about an equal 
number of Kemalist troops in civilian clothes who have 
filtered into the city in order to make sure that Constan- 
tinople will go to Kemal no matter how the peace negotia- 
tions come out." The paragraph's last sentence had an 
impressive finality. "All these," Hemingway wrote, "have 
entered since the last estimate." 

His precise catalogue of the city, as orderly and compre- 
hensive as a large scale map, included an outline of night 
life of the city, where the theaters did not open until ten 
o'clock. "The night clubs open at two, the more respecta- 
ble night clubs that is. The disreputable night clubs open at 
four in the morning." Hemingway mentioned discreetly the 
Galata settlement, as befitted a correspondent for a family 
paper that nonetheless granted the readability of vice. He ex- 


plained that the small cluster of buildings, half way up the 
hill from the port, had "a district that is more unspeakably 
horrible than the foulest heyday of the old Barbary Coast. 
It festers there, trapping the soldiers and sailors of all the 
allies and of all nations." 

Hemingway continued this personal, feature treatment in 
his next dispatch, despite the fact that the article was a 
cable, datelined October 9 from Constantinople and reach- 
ing Toronto in time to be used in the late afternoon editions 
that same day. 9 Hemingway had not yet dealt with the 
potential threat to Christians. This was one of the major 
news values of the situation, prominently exploited in the 
coverage by the New York press and the wire services. It 
was of particular interest to a pious, church-going com- 
munity like Toronto. For the answers, Hemingway duti- 
fully sought out Hamid Bey, "next to Kemal, perhaps," he 
wrote, "the most powerful man in the Angora government." 

Hemingway's instinct for characterization, and his gift 
for the effective interviewing of celebrities this was the 
primary assignment for which John Bone ultimately brought 
him back to Canada in the early fall of 1923 allowed him 
to ignore massacres for the first two paragraphs. "Bismarck," 
he cabled, "said all men in the Balkans who tuck their shirts 
into their trousers are crooks. The shirts of the peasants, of 
course, hang outside. At any rate, when I found Hamid 
Bey ... in his Stamboul office where he directs his Kemal- 
ist government in Europe, while drawing a large salary as 
administrator of the Imperial Ottoman Bank, a French 
capitalized concern his shirt was tucked in, for he was 
dressed in a grey business suit." 

Hemingway's final dispatch from Constantinople his 
sixth in little more than a week was mailed the following 
day. 10 Mindful of his obligations as a Canadian correspond- 
ent, he located a topic of particular interest to an Empire 
audience. Afghanistan's borders touched almost every sore 


spot in the area, and its proximity to Mesopotamia was 
doubly significant because of Kemal's designs on the oil- 
rich English mandate. Hemingway's imagination responded 
to the proud, martial code of the Afghans. He incorpor- 
ated the techniques of personal verification, political real- 
ism, and careful dialogue and vignettes. Shere Mohamet 
Khan, whom Hemingway had previously met in Rome, 
"was tall, dark-haired, hawk-faced, as straight as a lance, 
with the bird-of-prey eyes and the hooked nose that mark 
the Afghan . . . like a man out of the renaissance. . . ." 

He translated the history of Afghanistan through a blend 
of chronology and personalities, emphasizing always the 
Afghan hatred of England. He told the story of the former 
Amir of Afghanistan "all his life he hated the English" 
who was "a great man ... a hard man, a far-seeing man and 
an Afghan." The Amir spent his entire life consolidating 
his tribal domain into a unified nation, and in training his 
son. "His son," Hemingway explained, "was to carry on 
his work to make war on the English." The Kiplingesque 
quality which Gertrude Stein had previously noted in his 
poetry was more than just the coincidence of the material. 
The idiom and sentence structure, as well as the essential 
attitude and treatment, are reminders that Hemingway later 
recommended the Englishman's short stories, emphatically, 
as profitable models for a young writer. 11 

The old man died. The son, Habibullah Khan, became 
Amir. The English invited him to come down to India on 
a state visit, and he went to see what manner of people these 
English were. There the English got him. First, they enter- 
tained him royally. They showed him many delights and 
they taught him to drink. I do not say he was not an apt 
learner. He was no longer a man and an Afghan. 

Hemingway's six Constantinople stories had touched on 
almost every element in the explosive, varied situation. He 


had defined the nature of the Turkish position, with par- 
ticular emphasis on the all-important French and Russian 
alliances. He had attempted an analysis of the composition 
of the Kemalist group, and its prospects for continued 
unity. He had given a vivid base to the articles through the 
portrait of the city, and his sketch of Hamid Bey supplied 
a glimpse of Turkish leadership and a foreshadowing of 
what a Turkish occupation of Constantinople could imply. 
The essay on Afghanistan had reminded his readers of the 
fragility of European peace. He had cabled and mailed 
John Bone a comprehensive feature treatment of the assign- 
ment. Hemingway's reservations about newspaper work 
have always been sound ones, but during this entire period 
as a foreign correspondent in 1922 he had on the whole the 
sort of duties, and gave to them the kind of treatment, 
which reduced some of the dangers, creatively speaking, of 
a journalistic apprenticeship. He had, above all, done a 
minimum of spot news reporting. 

"When you describe something that has happened that 
day," he wrote in 1935, "the timeliness makes people see it 
in their own imaginations. A month later that element of 
time is gone and your account would be flat and they 
would not see in their minds nor remember it." 32 

Hemingway, at least until he covered the Lausanne Con- 
ference late in 1922, was able to give to his journalism in- 
gredients which to a degree replaced the false strength of 
timeliness. "But if you make it up instead of describe it," he 
continued on that same occasion in the 1930's, once again 
paraphrasing Miss Stein's lessons, "you can make it round 
and whole and solid and give it life. You create it, for good 
or bad. It is made; not described." Hemingway had not 
made up his Constantinople dispatches, but neither had he 
been imprisoned within the restrictions of topical reporting. 
He could have remained indefinitely in the city, finding 
other ramifications of the broad outline he had already 


written. Constantinople was exciting and turbulent, full of 
drama and romance and excess, and never more so than in 
October, 1922. Years later Hemingway wrote a little of it 
into the introspection of the writer dying in the shadow of 
Kilimanjaro, as Harry remembers that in Constantinople, 
after a night of violence and brawling, he "drove out to 
Rimmily Hissa along the Bosphorus." 13 

The instinct that made Hemingway a good reporter 
eventually eclipsed the charm of the gay, reckless life, with 
its echoes of 1918 moods. When he had filed his Afghanistan 
dispatch he left Constantinople and went after what was 
for him a story more important than even the political and 
diplomatic realities. He moved southward and followed the 
Greek army as it evacuated Eastern Thrace. He had missed 
the climactic fighting in August and September; he had no 
intention of missing this later phase. From Italian soldiers 
and officers in 1918, and from other wounded men in the 
Milan hospital, Hemingway had heard the stories about 
Caporetto; now, four years later, he was about to see his 
own variation of the Italian retreat. 

Hemingway's reaction to the tragic spectacle of military 
defeat and betrayal was personal and imaginative. He date- 
lined the first of this second set of Near East dispatches 
from Muradii, a small village near Lake Van, several hun- 
dred miles east of Constantinople, on October 14. 14 He was 
an accurate, informative reporter of this basic element of 
war, the withdrawal of a large body of men through hostile 
country. The experience illuminated everything he had 
read of all war, what he had heard of the American Civil 
War, and what he had sensed and witnessed in Italy. The 
things he found in Eastern Thrace told him precisely what 
an army looks like during an evacuation. 


In their ill-fitting U.S. uniforms they are trekking across 
the country, cavalry patrols out ahead, the soldiers march- 
ing sullenly but occasionally grinning at us as we pass their 
strung-out, straggling columns. They have cut all the tele- 
graph wires behind them; you see them dangling from the 
poles like Maypole ribbons. They have abandoned their 
thatched huts, their camouflaged gun positions, their ma- 
chine gun nests, and all the heavily wired, strung out, forti- 
fied ridges where they had planned to make a last stand 
against the Turk. . . . Some soldiers lie on top of the mounds 
of baggage, while others goad the buffalo along. Ahead and 
behind the baggage carts are strung out the troops. This is 
the end of the great Greek military adventure. 

Hemingway's primary concern, though he was acutely 
aware of the tactics and strategy of withdrawal, was with 
the individual Greek soldier. "Even in the evacuation," he 
wrote, "the Greek soldiers looked like good troops." Hem- 
ingway learned a great deal from an English captain, a 
cavalryman from the Indian Army. Captain Wittal was one 
of the two officers attached to the Greeks as an observer 
during the fighting around Angora in the late summer. 
Hemingway tried hard to put the idiom and inflection of 
the English officer's speech into the article's dialogue. " 'In 
the one show in Anatolia,' Captain Wittal said, 'the Greek 
infantry were doing an absolutely magnificent attack and 
their artillery was doing them in.' " Wittal also told Hem- 
ingway about Major Johnson, the other English observer, 
an experienced gunner who was so shocked by the unpro- 
fessional spectacle that he " 'cried at what those gunners 
were doing to their infantry.' " Years later this became 
another of the fragments of memory in "The Snows of 
Kilimanjaro"; Harry remembers "where they had made the 
attack with the newly arrived Constantine officers, that did 
not know a god-damned thing, and the artillery had fired 


into the troops and the British observer had cried like a 
child." Hemingway's last sentences in the 1922 dispatch 
were clear and bitter, testimony to his imaginative involve- 
ment in the scene. 

All day I have been passing them, dirty, tired, unshaven, 
wind-bitten soldiers hiking along the trails across the brown, 
rolling, barren Thracian country. No bands, no relief or- 
ganizations, no leave areas, nothing but lice, dirty blankets, 
and mosquitoes at night. They are the last of the glory that 
was Greece. This is the end of their second siege of Troy. 

Hemingway learned other things about a retreat, things 
he didn't mail to Toronto but saved for the long Caporetto 
passages he wrote in 1929 for A Farewell to Arms. He had 
other stories, too, from Captain Wittal and from Major 
Johnson; the latter had become press liaison officer in Con- 
stantinople. Once again Hemingway saved them for Harry's 
dying monologue. "That was the day he'd first seen dead 
men wearing white ballet skirts and upturned shoes with 
pompons on them ... he and the British observer had run 
. . . until his lungs ached and his mouth was full of the 
taste of pennies and they stopped behind some rocks and 
there were the Turks coming as lumpily as ever." In 1922, 
however, Hemingway filed no further details on the mili- 
tary aspects of the evacuation. He moved north toward the 
vast civilian exodus from Western Thrace. He stopped 
briefly in Constantinople, 15 and then on October 20, now 
many miles north of the city, he cabled from Adrianople 
a fine story of the refugees who were moving out of East- 
ern Thrace. 16 It was harsh and compressed, a vivid recapitu- 
lation of civilian tragedy. In 1922 its horror had not become 
a global commonplace; Hemingway saw it with a fresh, 
shocked awareness. 


In a never-ending, staggering march the Christian popu- 
lation of Eastern Thrace is jamming the roads towards 
Macedonia. The main column crossing the Maritza River 
at Adrianople is twenty miles long. Twenty miles of carts 
drawn by cows, bullocks and muddy-flanked water buffalo, 
with exhausted, staggering men, women, and children, blan- 
kets over their heads, walking blindly in the rain beside 
their worldly goods. 

This spectacle of refugee misery, beyond all the rest of 
what he saw in Asia Minor, left the most permanent scar 
on Hemingway. In his creative work he made far more use 
of what he learned from the military catastrophe; he told 
Malcolm Cowley, in fact, that he "really learned about war" 
in the Near East. 17 The civilian suffering, however, gave a 
new dimension to his determination to be a writer. He has 
always been generous and quick in his response to grief. 
His ready, decent anger had already been displayed in his 
indignation about Italian fascism. His susceptibilities once 
caused him to explain that "I cannot see a horse down in 
the street without having it make me feel a necessity for 
helping the horse, and I have spread sacking, unbuckled 
harness and dodged shod hoofs many times and will again if 
they have horses on city streets in wet and icy weather. 
. . ," 18 Hemingway had neither seen nor imagined such 
human suffering as he saw in October, 1922, along the road 
to Adrianople. 

When he got back to France after finishing his Greco- 
Turk assignment, he made on the basis of it a decision about 
his career. "I remember," he said thirty years later, "coming 
home from the Near East . . . absolutely heartbroken at 
what was going on and in Paris trying to decide whether 
I would put my whole life into trying to do something 
about it or to be a writer." His indignation made the deci- 
sion a difficult one; he had been raised, after all, in the 


decent world of Oak Park, with its middle-class, nineteenth- 
century heritage of New England humanitarianism. "I de- 
cided," he said in 1951, "cold as a snake, to be a writer and 
to write as truly as I could all my life." 19 The terse clarity 
of the Adrianople cable, which the Daily Star used on the 
first page of the second section, could not disguise what he 
was feeling. Once he had established the scene in the first 
three paragraphs, in exposition as effective as any journal- 
ism he had yet written, 20 Hemingway quickly ended the 
cable. His last two paragraphs, for there were only five in 
all, were an explicit plea for help. "At Adrianople," he 
cabled, "where the main stream moves through, there is no 
Near East relief at all. They are doing very good work at 
Rodosto on the coast, but can only touch the fringe." 

He completed his Near East assignment three days later, 
with a long, two-thousand-word article which John Bone 
spread out across a whole page. 21 Hemingway was at last 
out of sight of that grim procession. He wrote the final dis- 
patch as he rode through Bulgaria, and mailed it from Sofia 
on October 23. He pretended to a retrospective softening 
of the horror. "In a comfortable train," he declared, "with 
the horrors of the Thracian evacuation behind me, it was al- 
ready beginning to seem unreal. That is the boon of our 
memories." His second paragraph was a more curt and 
precise appraisal of his mood. "I have described that evacu- 
ation," he said bleakly, "in a cable to The Star from Adri- 
anople. It does no good to go over it again. The evacuation 
still keeps up." His memories were in reality far from 

No matter how long it takes this letter to get to Toronto, 
as you read this in The Star you may be sure that the same 
ghastly, shambling procession of people being driven from 
their homes is filing in unbroken line along the muddy road 


to Macedonia. A quarter of a million people take a long 
time to move. 

Hemingway then supplied a detailed account of his move- 
ments and experiences during that period from which he 
had compressed his cable of three days earlier. "Adrianople 
itself," he wrote, u is not a pleasant place." He described the 
railway station, "a mud-hole crowded with soldiers, bun- 
dles, bed-springs, bedding, sewing machines, babies, broken 
carts, all in the mud and the drizzling rain." The scene was 
the more horrible from being lit only with kerosene flares; 
it was one of those "very simple things," as he explained 
later, which he tried in his early work to make "permanent, 
as, say, Goya tried to make them in Los Desastres de la 
Guerra" 22 He returned always, however, to the procession 
itself, particularly in a long, single sentence paragraph that 
reaffirmed the cable. "I walked five miles with the refugees 
[sic] procession along the road . . . always the slow, rain 
soaked, shambling, trudging Thracian peasantry plodding 
along in the rain, leaving their homes behind." 

Hemingway ended his Near East assignment with vi- 
gnettes of the tough, callous opportunism of Madame Marie, 
the prospering operator of Adrianople's only hotel. He car- 
ried with him a final impression of indifference toward suf- 
fering, as he traveled by train from Sofia north through 
Serbia and on to Trieste. Paris itself was a splendid contrast 
to Adrianople; the races at Anteuil were very good that 
year and he watched them from under a bright, blue No- 
vember sky. As with Harry in "The Snows of Kiliman- 
jaro," however, there were aspects of Paris which only 
aggravated his memories. "So when he got back to Paris 
that time he could not talk about it or stand to have it 
mentioned. And there in the cafe as he passed was that 
American poet with a pile of saucers in front of him and a 
stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada move- 


ment with a Roumanian who said his name was Tristan 
Tzara, who always wore a monocle and had a headache." 

The Asia Minor assignment gave Hemingway's under- 
standing of war a depth impossible on the basis of his Italian 
experience alone. His education was extended by another 
lesson in geopolitical realities. The area of his physical back- 
ground had been enlarged; a Balkan campaign had given 
him a wider base for the worldliness by which he illumi- 
nated so much of his early work. Few young men of 
twenty-three could draw on a Near East experience. Hem- 
ingway drew on it heavily. Of the sixteen brief inter-chap- 
ters in In Our Time, in 1925, three of the most forceful 
came from the Asia Minor assignment. 

In 1930, when he was preparing a new edition of the 
short story collection, he included a prelude which he later 
entitled, "On the Quai at Smyrna." 23 The appalling cruelty 
toward their animals, by Greeks and Turks, had an almost 
traumatic effect on Hemingway. He used it not only in the 
1930 sketch but also in "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" and 
twice in Death in the Afternoon. On that particular occa- 
sion, in fact, as if aware of the psychotic way in which he 
was returning to the scene, Hemingway allowed the Old 
Lady to chide him for his preoccupation. "You wrote about 
those mules before," she reminds him. "I know it," Hem- 
ingway replied, "and I'm sorry. Stop interrupting. I won't 
write about them again. I promise." 24 

He was equally absorbed by the technical possibilities of 
cabelese. A few weeks later, back in Europe, he showed 
his refugee cable to Lincoln StefFens. Steffens was impressed 
by the story's exposition. Hemingway protested this re- 
sponse. "I was seeing the scene and said so," Steffens ex- 
plained subsequently. "No," Hemingway had corrected 


him, "read the cabelese, only the cabelese. Isn't it a great 
language?" 25 Most of the cabelese he sent from Asia Minor, 
however, had been for the International News Service 
rather than the Daily Star. None of his I.N.S. material was 
by-lined, nor were there any permanent records to verify 
his Hearst coverage. The arrangement had been a private 
one between Hemingway and Frank Mason. 26 More than 
a decade later Hemingway described the kind of material 
he cabled I.N.S. from Asia Minor. It was the conventional, 
telegraphic cabelese rather than the curt but nevertheless 
formed cabelese he had sent to the Daily Star. His output, 
sent at three dollars a word to, he said satirically, Monu- 
mental News Service, "would be something on this or- 
GUILTY GREEKS ... to appear as 'Mustapha Kemal in 
an exclusive interview today with the correspondent of the 
Monumental News Service denied vehemently that the 
Turkish forces had any part in the burning of Smyrna. The 
city, Kemal stated, was fired by incendiaries in the troops 
of the Greek rear guard before the first Turkish patrols 
entered the city.' " 2T 

Hemingway's tenuous connection with the Hearst or- 
ganization did not become weaker or even non-existent, as 
might have been expected, but stronger. He had only a 
few weeks of rehabilitation in Paris in November, 1922. 
John Bone ordered him to Lausanne to cover the confer- 
ence assembling there for the diplomatic settlement of the 
whole Greco-Turk affair. Hemingway's coverage of the 
Near East assignment, however, was reversed at Lausanne. 
In Switzerland he did most of his writing for Universal 
News, the second of Hearst's overseas news agencies, 
rather than for the Toronto Star. 




"And at a busy typewriter outside the 
door of the British press-room, cabling 
hourly bulletins ... sat ... Ernest 
Hemingway." GEORGE SLocoMBE 1 

Hemingway almost left the Lausanne Conference before 
it was thoroughly under way. At the end of the first week, 
although the meeting was of special interest to a Canadian 
paper, Hemingway had made up his mind to return to 
Paris. He told Henry Wales, who was in Lausanne for the 
Chicago Tribune, that he "could not stand the expenses in 
Switzerland." 2 This was always a troublesome aspect of 
Hemingway's relationship with the Star; he paid his own 
way while covering an assignment, and eventually was re- 
imbursed, and his material paid for, after he had filed an 
expense account. 

Wales, who was then Floyd Gibbons's assistant, located 
a compromise by which Hemingway could remain at Laus- 
anne. An hour or two after talking to Hemingway, Wales 
got a phone call from Charles Bertelli, the chief Hearst 
correspondent in France. Bertelli, who was also in charge 
of the Paris office of Hearst's Universal News Service, told 
Wales that he wasn't going to be able to attend the con- 
ference himself. He asked the Tribune correspondent to 
suggest someone who would cover the assignment for 
Universal. Bertelli's principal concern was with the press 


conferences and the daily communiques. He also wanted 
the reporter to pick up any general news he could find and 
telephone it to Paris every evening; Bertelli could then 
write a complete story each day. Wales immediately told 
Hemingway to get in touch with Bertelli. 

The arrangement was characteristic both of the Hearst 
news agencies in general and of Bertelli in particular. He 
himself remembered the association with Hemingway in 
much the same terms as Wales. "I was overwhelmed with 
work," Bertelli said in 1952. "[Therefore] we provided 
with someone over there to keep us covered and the some- 
one happened to be Hemingway." 3 His work for Universal, 
Bertelli explained, "was only short flashes and newsy stuff 
and nothing descriptive or long requiring the signature of 
a well-known writer." 

Hemingway recalled the Universal assignment as a la- 
borious one. He described it, quite accurately, as "running 
a twenty-four-hour wire service for an afternoon and morn- 
ing news service." 4 It was journalism of a sort he had been 
previously spared. Almost entirely spot news, it was routine 
and undramatic and had a minimum of feature possibilities. 
As Bertelli had anticipated, virtually all of it was in the form 
of official hand-outs. One correspondent, Ludwell Denny, 
describing the first six weeks of the conference for the 
Nation, went so far as to declare that there was "an abso- 
lute control of the news sources." 5 From the beginning the 
newspapermen were barred from the conference sessions, 
which opened on November 20 in the Lausanne Casino. 
They were also excluded from the building to which the 
conference then moved, the Hotel du Chateau at Ouchy. 
There was no point in the reporters interviewing the lesser 
delegates, who, according to Denny, were "as ignorant 
as they of what goes on up in Curzon's room." The 
only important delegate who held press conferences was 
Tchitcherin, the Soviet foreign minister. He didn't arrivje 


at the conference until December, and his substitute, in- 
deed, was at first refused full admission to the meetings. 

Hemingway, of course, had to attend faithfully the daily 
ceremony at which the English secretary released the Brit- 
ish interpretation of current activities. Inasmuch as he had 
to wire material both to Universal, whose stories were gen- 
erally used by Hearst's morning papers, and to I.N.S., 
which was in a sense the afternoon agency, Hemingway 
also covered the other delegations in search of material. 
"Since each country was anxious to present its version of 
what had happened," Hemingway later explained, "before 
credence was given to any other country's account, these 
press conferences followed in rapid succession and you had 
to step very fast to get them all in." 6 Hemingway normally 
filed his last dispatch around three in the morning and left 
another story with the concierge "to open the wire with in 
the morning at seven." At noon he gathered with the other 
correspondents in the bar of the enormous Beau-Rivage 
Hotel, on Lake Geneva, where the British and Italian dele- 
gates were staying; later in the afternoon he went up into 
the town to the Palace Hotel to get the French and Turkish 

Hemingway was encountering, with the rest of the press, 
the same resistance he had resented in the English lieutenant 
colonel at the Mudania Conference in October. Secret 
diplomacy, official hand-outs, and the suave, high pressure 
tactics of Lord Curzon were another lesson in political 
realities. The effect of the conference on Hemingway, and 
its contribution to his creative production, are indicated by 
the poem which was accepted by the Little Review and 
published in its Exiles' Number in the spring of 1923. 7 Its 
title "They All Want Peace What Is Peace?" summed 
up his contempt. Its lines and themes were forceful and 


M. Stambuliski walks up the hill and down the hill. Don't 

talk about M. Venizelos. He is wicked. You can see it. His 

beard shows it. 

Mr. Child is not wicked. 

Mrs. Child has flat breasts and Mr. Child is an idealist and 

wrote Harding's campaign speeches and calls Senator 

Beveridge Al. 

His antagonism embraced his vocation as well as diplo- 
macy. His mockery of the newspapermen's complacent 
wisdom "Well what do you boys know this morning? 
/ Oh they're shrewd. They're shrewd." indicated that he 
was once again restless with journalism. The parody of a 
child's primer, coupled with the coarse realism, made the 
poem an effective statement. Hemingway's obligation to 
Gertrude Stein was in this case a large one. He explained 
to Edmund Wilson a few months later that he had written 
the verse on the train back to Lausanne from Paris, after a 
lunch and afternoon of talk with Miss Stein. 8 Remember- 
ing that he had to open the Universal wire again in the 
morning, Hemingway sat over a bottle of Beaune in the 
dining car and tried to define the conference. "Her method 
is invaluable . . . ," Hemingway told Wilson. "She has a 
wonderful head." 

Hemingway did not arrive at such disillusionment solely 
on the basis of his previous encounters with diplomatic 
parleys, as observed at Genoa and Mudania, nor solely on 
his own reaction to the Lausanne Conference. The confer- 
ence's deceit was all the more painful to him, of course, 
because he had so recently seen its background of refugee 
processions. It was also at Lausanne, however, that Hem- 
ingway received his most significant lessons in political re- 
ality, from a South African correspondent who took a liking 
to him and gave him his first formal instruction. 


William Bolitho Ryall he did not take the name William 
Bolitho, by which he is more widely remembered, until 
several years later was representing the Manchester Guard- 
ian at Lausanne. 9 Both his temperament and his biography 
made him a persuasive mentor for Hemingway. "He had 
been very badly blown up in the war," Hemingway once 
wrote, "while commanding infantry. Afterwards he had 
gotten into the intelligence service and at the time of 
[Versailles] he had been a sort of pay-off man for the dis- 
bursing of certain sums spent by the British to subsidize 
and influence certain individuals and certain organs of the 
French press." 10 

It would be hard to imagine a man whose martial and 
professional backgrounds would make him more highly 
regarded by Hemingway in 1922. He had been wounded 
as a foot soldier and he had been on the inside of large, pre- 
tentious diplomatic schemes. "None of us thought of him as 
a genius then," Hemingway said later of the period, "and 
I do not think he thought of himself as one either, being 
too busy, too intelligent, and, then, too sardonic to go in 
for being a genius in a city where they were a nickel a 
dozen and it was much more distinguished to be hard work- 
ing." 11 Bolitho had virtually every quality which would 
make him the first substantial non-literary influence on 
Hemingway since Pete Wellington and Lionel Moise in 
Kansas City. Later, of course, Bolitho did acquire a literary 
reputation. Much of his newspaper work was collected, 
and his Twelve Against the Gods, published in 1929, had 
for a time an enormous reputation. 12 When Hemingway 
knew him, however, Bolitho's force was being exerted 
largely through his personality. "As I was a kid then," 
Hemingway wrote in 1935, "he told me many things that 


were the beginning of whatever education I received in 
international politics." 13 

Walter Duranty, who saw a great deal of Bolitho during 
the early 1920's, gave a version of the South African which 
was almost identical to Hemingway's. Like Hemingway, 
the New York Times correspondent remembered Bolitho 's 
"brilliant political insight and flair for the underlying re- 
alities of any situation"; he also declared that Bolitho 
"taught me ... to think for myself." 14 Duranty, who dedi- 
cated his autobiography to Bolitho's memory, said in 1935 
that "of all the people I have met in the last twenty years, 
and there have been some high-sounding names amongst 
them, I think Bolitho had the finest intellect." 15 

Bolitho later became a special writer for the New York 
World. Even in that precocious company he was a com- 
pelling figure. Those who knew him in Manhattan in 1928 
and 1929 had the same response as young newspapermen 
like Duranty and Hemingway. "To hear Bolitho talk," said 
Alexander Woollcott, characteristically, "was to listen to 
one who himself dwelt outside of time." 16 Walter Lipp- 
mann testified to the same quality. "He was an eager guide," 
Lippmann wrote. "In any company he took the floor at 
the beginning of the evening and held it until the end, thus 
saving himself and the rest of the party much weariness." 17 
Lippmann added that "in his company ordinary things were 
transfigured, acquiring the glamour of mystery and great 

Bolitho, for Hemingway, was a more literate and in- 
formed Lionel Moise, with a self-discipline that Heming- 
way had missed in Moise. Hemingway's own tributes to 
Bolitho are explicit and personal. The characteristics which 
attracted Hemingway to Moise in 1918 could not possibly 
have had the same effect on him in 1922; he had grown 
beyond Moise, but he could learn from Bolitho. Even the 
skepticism Hemingway was feeling about journalism was 


shared by Bolitho, a fine columnist who nonetheless argued 
that newspaper work was a stepping-stone but not a career. 
The contempt for the trade which Hemingway had written 
into his poem on the Lausanne Conference "Oh they're 
shrewd. They're shrewd." was an absolute duplicate of 
Bolitho's own attitude toward his vocation. 

"Exchange the newspaper game," Bolitho urgently ad- 
vised Duranty, "for the thing we are trained to do, namely, 
writing. Books or plays, or what have you; in other words," 
he argued, "... capitalize your knowledge and experience 
and capacity for putting words on paper in a way that will 
interest your readers." Bolitho had a compassionate distaste 
for those who stayed too long in journalism. "I don't care 
whether it's fact or fiction," he told Duranty, "but it's got 
to be done somehow unless you want to end up like old 
Whiskers' you know who I mean as a burnt-out re- 
porter cadging drinks and dead-dog assignments from his 
younger friends." 

Hemingway was susceptible to such advice. Gertrude 
Stein had already urged him to get out of journalism. The 
positive assurance of such a man as Bolitho, coming as it 
did in the wake of Miss Stein's identical position, would 
have important consideration for Hemingway. "The echoes 
of his voice," Lippmann wrote in 1937 in his memoir about 
Bolitho, "are still about us." In the early winter of 1922 
Hemingway was exposed continuously to that voice. He 
and Bolitho were together almost every night in Lausanne. 
When Hemingway wrote for Esquire in the 1930's some 
articles on European politics, he leaned heavily on what he 
had learned from Bolitho during those two months. One 
night Bolitho explained to him the familiar concept that 
power affects all men in a certain way. The South African 
maintained that sooner or later you could always detect the 
symptoms. He even persuaded Hemingway that they were 
evident in his personal hero, Clemenceau. 


Bolitho's wit was hearty and sardonic. He quoted for 
Hemingway, in illustration of his power thesis, a certain 
Lord of the British Admiralty. It had become impossible 
for anyone to work with him, Bolitho explained one of 
the effects of power and the final smash came at a dis- 
cussion of how to get a better class of cadets for the Royal 
Navy. The admiral hammered on the table, according to 
Bolitho, and shouted, "Gentlemen, if you do not know 
where to get them, by God I will make them for you!" 18 
Bolitho strengthened in Hemingway his knowledgeability, 
his instinct for being on the inside, and his insistence that 
one should think for himself. Hemingway wasn't with 
Bolitho during the months when he was having his New 
York success, but he remembered him with affection and 
gratitude. "I never saw him after he became Bolitho," 
Hemingway said once, "but when he was Ryall he was a 
wonderful guy. He may have been even finer when he was 
Bolitho but I do not see how it would be possible." 19 

Lausanne thus became the kind of newspaper assignment 
at which a great many disreputable anecdotes about the 
diplomats were cynically exchanged by the journalists un- 
der very pleasant circumstances. The weather was excel- 
lent, Hemingway boxed in the mornings, usually with G. 
Ward Price, the London Daily Mail's correspondent, 20 
and, as in Constantinople, there was a good deal of alcoholic 
gaiety among the press. Beyond this, however, there was 
the discipline of continuous writing, even if it so often con- 
sisted of mere rephrasing of official communiques, and there 
was the stimulant of Bolitho. At Lausanne Hemingway also 
saw a good deal of Lincoln Steffens, whose confidence in 
Hemingway's writing future was immediate and certain. 
The celebrated muckraker read Hemingway's "rejected 


manuscripts, and read short stories, since published, which 
made me, as they did Guy Hickok and other reporters, 
sure of Hemingway." 21 

The short stories could only have been "Up in Michigan" 
and "My Old Man," for it was just before this that a valise 
containing all of Hemingway's work except those two 
pieces was stolen from a train in the Gare du Lyons. Mrs. 
Hemingway, in fact, was bringing the material from Paris 
to Lausanne, she remembered, and in particular an unfin- 
ished novel, "because of Ernest's letters singing high praises 
of Lincoln Steffens, his new friend, to whom I felt certain 
he would want to show these , . . chapters." 22 The loss of 
four years' production the suitcase held sketches that 
went back as far as the months in Michigan in 1919 was 
a shocking blow to Hemingway. His own shock was shared 
by his wife. "No amount of sleuthing ever brought the 
valise to light," she said in 19^2, "and so deeply had Ernest 
put himself into this writing that I think he never recovered 
from the pain of this irreparable loss." 

A Christmas holiday in Switzerland, however, was a 
delightful interlude, even if its prelude were a catastrophe. 
After ten days of skiing and bobsledding in the mountains, 
Hemingway returned to Lausanne in January, 1923. He 
continued his work for Universal, but he also wrote and 
mailed to Toronto two long articles about the conference. 
They were good dispatches, in which he again displayed 
his gifts as an interviewer. In effect, however, the stories 
were more than interviews the one with Mussolini, the 
other with Tchitcherin for in them he included detail, 
impressions, and evaluations of the conference as a whole. 
The pair of Daily Star articles formed a kind of two-install- 
ment assessment of the entire episode. 



The first of Hemingway's Lausanne dispatches was pub- 
lished in Toronto on January 27, 192 B. 23 The interview 
with Mussolini was almost exactly two thousand words 
long. It appeared on the center of page eleven, its three 
columns fanned beneath four banks of headlines and around 
a good-sized photograph of the Italian politician. Before he 
dealt with Mussolini, however, Hemingway summed up 
his memories of the conference. His exposition was subjec- 
tive and lively. He used analogies from his own past as well 
as from literature and history. 

"In the Chateau de Ouchy," he began, "which is so ugly 
that it makes the Odd Fellows' Hall of Petoskey, Michigan 
look like the Parthenon, are held the sessions of the Laus- 
anne Conference." He reminded his readers that in the 
nineteenth century Ouchy had been "a little fishing village 
of weather-stained houses, a white-painted, pleasant inn 
with a shady front porch where Byron used to sit resting 
his bad leg on a chair while he looked out across the blue 
of Lake Geneva and waited for the supper bell to ring, and 
an old ruined tower that rose out of the reeds at the edge 
of the lake." As always, Hemingway's ironic eye caused 
him to take a closer look at the contemporary Ouchy. 

"The Swiss," he continued, "have torn down the fishing 
buildings, nailed up a tablet on the inn front porch, hustled 
Byron's chair into a museum, filled in the reedy shore with 
dirt from the excavations that cover the slope up the hill 
to Lausanne, and built the ugliest building in Europe around 
the old tower." Hemingway's sense of place, as his novels 
in particular indicate, is an acute one. The erasure of sig- 
nificant landmarks has not only pained him for the loss of 
beauty, but also often destroyed, in his judgment, one of 
the valid instruments by which a writer may retain the 
truth of a given period or association. He has felt this more 


deeply in terms of his personal typography, so to speak, 
than even in such a vanished symbol as Childe Harold's 
tower. "You need local knowledge," he once said, "and 
to have seen the hill before the bull-dozer hit it. You need 
to have fished the stream before they put in the dam for 
the irrigation project/' 24 What has happened to Oak Park 
and Kansas City and New York is only slightly more offen- 
sive to him than what had been done to Lausanne since the 
departure of Byron. "This building . . . ," Hemingway con- 
tinued for the Daily Star, "resembles one of the love-nests 
that sauerkraut kings used to build along the Rhine before 
the war as dream-homes for their sauerkraut queens." 

He brought his impressionism closer to the conference 
itself. "You can tell when the Conference is in session," he 
wrote, "by the rows of limousines parked along the Chateau 
facing the lake." Hemingway dramatized the moment when 
the Russians left their hotel. "A taxi comes up to the door 
and Arrens, the Cheka man and Bolshevist press agent, 
comes out, his heavy, dark face sneering and his one roving 
eye shooting away out of control; he is followed by 
Rakovsky and Tchitcherin." Hemingway had talked to 
Tchitcherin in Genoa, ten months before, and he made a 
vivid estimate of the changes that had occurred in the 
Soviet Foreign Minister. "Tchitcherin is not as he was at 
Genoa when he seemed to blink at the world as a man who 
has come out of darkness into too strong sunlight. He is 
more confident now, has a new overcoat, and a better 
groomed look; he has been living well in Berlin, and his 
face is fuller, although he looks the same as ever in profile 
with his wispy red beard and mustache and his furtive, old 
clothes man slouch." 

Hemingway's intention was to sketch a gallery of the 
conference's major personalities. The story's headlines 
emphasized this; one phrase, beneath several heads about 
Mussolini, simply promised: "OTHER CHARACTERS." Hem- 


ingway turned to the Turkish delegation. His brief, careful 
portrait of Turkey's chief delegate maintained the imagi- 
native selectivity of his characterization of Tchitcherin. 
"Everyone wants to see Ismet Pasha, but once they have 
seen him they have no desire to see him again. ... I think 
the solution is that Ismet has a good movie face. I have seen 
him, in pictures, look stern, commanding, forceful and, in 
a way, handsome. Anyone who has seen in real life the 
weak, petulant face of any one of a dozen movie stars who 
look beautiful on the screen, knows what I mean. Ismet's 
face is not weak or petulant, it is simply plain and char- 

Ismet's final function in the dispatch was to prepare the 
reader for the portrait of the man who presented such a 
contrast to the Turk. Hemingway's sketch of Mussolini 
went beyond mere instinctive distaste. It was extremely 
hostile. He documented his hostility both by anecdote and 
by amateur psychoanalysis; he declared himself immedi- 
ately. "Mussolini," Hemingway wrote, "is the biggest bluff 
in Europe." He varied his attack with a crescendo of fact, 
ridicule, and psychological abuse. "Get hold of a good 
photograph of Signor Mussolini some time," he urged, "and 
study it." 

You will see the weakness in his mouth which forces him 
to scowl the famous Mussolini scowl that is imitated by 
every 19 year old Fascisto in Italy. Study his past record. 
. . . Study his genius for clothing small ideas in big words. 
Study his propensity for duelling. Really brave men do not 
have to fight duels, and many cowards duel constantly to 
make themselves believe they are brave. And then look at 
his black shirt and his white spats. There is something 
wrong, even histrionically, with a man who wears white 
spats with a black shirt. 


Hemingway was skeptical of the currently fashionable 
comparisons between Mussolini and Napoleon. He argued, 
"after an intimate study of the subject," that the better paral- 
lel was with a much more ludicrous and inglorious figure. 
Hemingway's contemporary analogy was to Horatio Bot- 
tomley, an English financier who had been convicted in 
London in 1922 for the misuse of public funds and sen- 
tenced to seven years in prison. 25 Like Mussolini, Bottomley 
was intensely patriotic. He had once described himself as 
"the King's chief recruiting agent in the war." Like Musso- 
lini, too, he had been both jingoistic politician and journalist; 
at the time of his conviction Bottomley was a Member of 
Parliament, and he had also been for many years owner 
and editor of John Bull, England's most nationalistic maga- 
zine. His reputation in Parliament was as a demagogue of 
extraordinary eloquence. 

Hemingway, on the other hand, did not underestimate 
Mussolini's strength. "It isn't really Bottomley, though," 
he concluded. "Bottomley was a fool. Mussolini isn't a fool 
and he is a great organizer." As in his earlier articles on 
Italian fascism, Hemingway had shown a premature under- 
standing of its quality and menace. His attitude toward 
Mussolini was not characteristic of most American journal- 
ists of the period. 20 The entire interview, and the position 
it represents in Hemingway's twenty-three-year-old evalu- 
ation of political morality, is a reminder of his indignation 
many years later when Archibald MacLeish cited him as 
one of America's literary irresponsibles. "Having fought 
fascism in every place that I know how," Hemingway said 
in 1940, "in the places where you could really fight it, I 
have no remorse neither literary nor political." 27 

His response to Tchitcherin, spokesman for another to- 
talitarianism, was less hostile, and for good reasons. The 
article Hemingway mailed to the Daily Star on January 25 
made these reasons clear. 28 Tchitcherin, he felt, had none 


of the Italian's mean viciousness and pretense. He neither 
charmed nor repelled Hemingway; he interested the young 
reporter as he might have interested William Bolitho, as a 
problem in character that might be solved by independent 
analysis. Hemingway found the key in Tchitcherin's ironic 
antecedents as a Russian aristocrat. He supplemented this 
with one of the historical parallels by which, probably 
under the influence of the widely read Bolitho, he was in- 
creasingly attempting to clarify his journalism. "Tchitcherin 
was an old Czarist diplomat, and if Lenin is the Napoleon 
that made a dictatorship out of the Russian revolution, 
Tchitcherin is his Talleyrand." 

Tchitcherin's position as foreign minister enabled Hem- 
ingway to deal comprehensively with the Soviet relation- 
ships to other nations. He enlivened with paragraphs of 
dialogue what could have degenerated into a dull lecture; 
the conversation had the lucid conviction of the professional 
diplomat. It was the contest between Tchitcherin and Lord 
Curzon, Hemingway maintained, "that made the Lausanne 
Conference so interesting." He spoke of it as a conflict 
"between the British Empire and the future Russian Em- 
pire with Curzon, a tall, cold, icicle of a man holding the 
whip hand with the British fleet, and Tchitcherin fighting, 
fighting, with arguments, historical instances, facts, statistics 
and impassioned pleas and finally, seeing it was hopeless, 
simply talking for history, registering his objections for 
future generations to read. . . ." 

The remainder of the dispatch was a return to the inti- 
mate portraiture at which Hemingway was becoming ex- 
pert. Like the Mussolini interview, this second Lausanne 
story was illustrated, in this case by two photographs, each 
one showing Tchitcherin in the gaudy uniform of a Soviet 
general. This was the motif of Hemingway's final para- 
graphs. "Tchitcherin, you must know," Hemingway ex- 
plained, "has never been a soldier. He is timid personally. 


He does not fear assassination, but he would turn pale if 
you shook your fist under his nose. Until he was twelve 
years old his mother kept him in dresses." Hemingway 
described the astonishment of a group of reporters who 
saw the two photographs displayed in a Lausanne shop. 

"They're faked/' one man said. "Why he's never had a 
uniform on in his life." 

We all looked closely at the photographs. 

"Nope. They're not faked." Some one said: "I can tell. 
They're not faked. Let's go and ask Slocombe." 

The newspapermen found George Slocombe, "the cor- 
respondent of the London Daily Herald, who is Tchit- 
cherin's very good friend and sometimes his mouthpiece," 
sitting in the press room of the Palace Hotel. Hemingway 
had known the Englishman since March, when they had 
covered the Genoa Conference and visited Max Beerbohm. 
Slocombe explained that all the Soviet commissars were 
automatically generals in the Red Army, and that Tchit- 
cherin had proudly ordered the uniform in Berlin. Hem- 
ingway finished the Lausanne chapter of his Near East 
assignment on this ironic note. "The boy who was kept in 
dresses until he was twelve years old always wanted to be 
a soldier. And soldiers make empires, and empires make 
wars." The assignment as a whole, extending from Con- 
stantinople in September through the Greek retreat and 
the Thracian refugees in October, including as it did the 
close contact with the conference in November, Decem- 
ber, and January, and embracing the personal relationships 
with Bolitho and Steffens, was an important episode in his 
European apprenticeship. He had a chance to digest and 
assess it and a chance also to measure his reactions against 
another bright, inquiring mind. He and his wife went to 
Rapallo and spent several days with Ezra Pound. 


The atmosphere was completely different from Lausanne, 
save for the superficial resemblance between Pound and 
Bolitho. It was dominated by Pound's lively energy; it in- 
cluded such men as Michael Strater, the artist who had 
recently done the drawings for Pound's first sixteen cantos, 
and Robert McAlmon, whose Three Mountains Press had 
published the book. The artistic and literary intensity of 
the colony was enlivened by such restless expatriates as 
Nancy Cunard. Hemingway played tennis with Pound and 
Strater, and he discussed writing with McAlmon, and, 
McAlmon remembered later, "he talked of Sherwood 
Anderson, Harriet Monroe, and Gertrude Stein." 29 Hem- 
ingway explained to McAlmon that most of his manu- 
scripts had just been lost, but that he still had some short 
stories. McAlmon, the most active of the expatriate pub- 
lishers, told Hemingway to send them to him in Paris. This 
was the origin of Hemingway's first published collection, 
Three Stories & Ten Poems, which McAlmon brought out 
later in the year. 30 From Rapallo the Hemingways went up 
to the Dolomites. They stayed at Cortina D'Ampezzo for 
several weeks. In April their skiing was interrupted by 
another of John Bone's cables. 



"You have to keep in touch with 
[history] at the time and you can 
depend on just as much as you have 
actually seen and followed." 


Hemingway's assignments from John Bone became pro- 
gressively more desirable throughout his tenure as the Star's 
staff correspondent in Europe. Now, in April, 1923, he re- 
ceived a particularly important one. His series of articles 
on the French occupation of the Ruhr was the most elab- 
orate single undertaking of the long apprenticeship which 
began in Oak Park, on the Trapeze, in 1916, and ended in 
Toronto on December 31, 1923. In the scope he gave to it 
the Ruhr series compared creditably with his newspaper 
work as a mature writer in Spain in 1937, in the Orient in 
1941, and in England and France in 1944. 2 

Hemingway made of the Ruhr assignment a sound piece 
of political reporting. He went beyond Bone's conception 
of him as a clever feature writer whose special forte was 
vivid impressionism and skeptical exposure. The series was 
tangible evidence of his personal growth and of his respon- 
sive debt to such disparate influences as Gertrude Stein and 
William Bolitho. His approach and treatment retained few 
remnants of the provincialism that had limited the breadth 
of certain Star Weekly stories and of his report on the 


Black Forest trip in August, 1922. He did more than rise 
to the serious requirements of the new assignment; he had 
developed sufficiently to give it dimensions John Bone had 
not visualized. The managing editor, indeed, took advan- 
tage of his pre-publication reading of the first three articles 
to insert some publicity in the Star Weekly about the forth- 
coming Daily Star series. On the same day the first dispatch 
was printed there appeared in the weekend supplement a 
full column called "Something About Ernest M. Heming- 
way, Who Is Taking the Lid Off Europe." 3 The column 
included more than a dozen paragraphs, some of them deal- 
ing with the series, others discussing Hemingway's colorful 
biography. Readers were urged to follow "these intensely 
interesting articles." 

The occupation of the Ruhr was a melancholy spectacle, 
one further testimonial to the waste and failure of the war 
and its treaties. Hemingway was able to make good use of 
the political instruction and experience he had received at 
Lausanne. He was compelled to translate Bolitho's lectures 
into a working pattern of expository analysis. His basic 
approach was a measure of the thoughtfulness with which 
he was attempting to communicate a catastrophe whose 
ramifications extended beyond the German frontiers. Hem- 
ingway did not merely catch the first train for Cologne. 
He wrote in Paris three introductory articles defining the 
situation and its antecedents. He explained his premise in 
the opening paragraphs of his first story, datelined from the 
French capital on April 3 and printed in Toronto eleven 
days later. 4 

"To write about Germany," he began, "you must begin 
by writing about France." This was a reminder of a quality 
Miss Stein detected in him the previous year; she found him 
a studious young man. His series of articles on the Franco- 
German situation, as it was billed in the Daily Star, demon- 
strated a thorough, investigative quality. His first European 


correspondence, in early 1922, was not unlike the material 
enterprising American undergraduates used to send back to 
their home-town newspaper during a summer trip. He was 
more gifted than most of the young string correspondents 
who wandered across the Continent in the decades between 
the wars, but his initial strength, like theirs, had been the 
ingenuous transcription of the novelties he was encounter- 
ing. Now, at only twenty-three, he had become sufficiently 
literate to expand his facility into a larger vision without 
losing the freshness and without becoming ponderous in 
his new knowledge. "There is a magic in the name France," 
Hemingway continued in the opening paragraph. "It is a 
rnagic like the smell of the sea or the sight of blue hills or 
of soldiers marching by. It is a very old magic." His idiom 
and point of view were personal and imaginative. His new 
skills had not yet made him a journalistic hack. "France," 
he wrote, "is a broad and lovely country." He did not hesi- 
tate to use emotionalism. "The loveliest country that I 
know. It is impossible to write impartially about a country 
when you love it." 

His tone established, Hemingway shifted to his principal 
theme. "But it is possible," he said, "to write impartially 
about the government of that country." He stated his un- 
dertaking and its genesis. "France refused in 1917 to make 
a peace without victory. Now she finds that she has a 
victory without peace. To understand why this is so we 
must take a look at the French government." It was in this 
way that Hemingway launched the series, with a few lines 
of evocative prose, an epigrammatic summary of the central 
events of the recent past, and a touch of journalistically 
useful didacticism. The rest of the article was a lucid 
resume of the contemporary alignment of French political 
parties. Hemingway ended this first installment with a 
promise of exciting revelations. "... the sinister tale that is 
unfolding day by day in the French chamber of deputies 


about how Poincare was forced into the Ruhr, against his 
own will and judgment, [and] the strange story of the rise 
of the royalists in France and their influence on the present 
government will be told in the next article." 

The initial dispatch, like all the articles in the series, had 
been long and detailed, but Hemingway gave his summary 
of essentially stale material an illusion of fresh exposure. 
Less expert and glossy, it had nevertheless a kind of pre- 
Time flow and vigor, with the same oversimplification of 
political complexities. Its two thousand words were spread 
out by the Daily Star beneath a four-column double banner 
and three banks of smaller headlines. It was illustrated with 
a panel of five of the politicians Hemingway discussed. It 
was further dignified by an editorial paragraph announcing 
it as the first of a series and by a note at the end in which 
the editor paraphrased Hemingway's own last paragraph. 
"In the next article/' the reader was told, "to be published 
on Wednesday next, Mr. Hemingway will describe the 
amazing growth and power of the Royalist party in 

John Bone intended to handle the series as in every way 
a feature of his newspaper. The second article was run in 
the paper's most prominent position, as the lead story in 
page one's seventh and eighth columns. 5 Hemingway's es- 
sentially romantic temperament had responded to the ap- 
parent drama of this republican paradox of a modern 
royalist party. Its famous names, mysterious power, and its 
echoes of past glories had for expatriates something of the 
more remote glamor of the Stuart dynasty. Hemingway's 
romanticism, however, which had made the Black Forest 
such a disappointment to him, was in this series rarely more 
than one of the contributive elements in his point of view. 
His sense of realism allowed him to detect the uglier aspects 
of the royalist group. Stylistically, to be sure, his quickened 
sensibility was reflected in the brisk, colloquial idiom, live- 


Her and more dramatic than the measured, academic expo- 
sition of the first article, but his systematic debunking 
included an attack on the royalist leader, Leon Daudet, and 
an implicitly hostile description of their papist coloration. 

Hemingway's profile of the due d'Orleans was less 
frankly unfriendly, but there was nothing in his description 
of the royalist claimant that made Philippe seem a well 
qualified candidate. "Philippe," Hemingway wrote drily, 
"lives in England, is a big, good looking man and rides very 
well to hounds." It was in his paragraphs about the party's 
hoodlums that Hemingway thoroughly destroyed the illu- 
sion of a gallant noble cause. 

There is a royal fascist! called the Camelots du Roi. They 
carry black, loaded canes with salmon colored handles and 
at twilight you can see them in Montmartre swaggering 
along the streets with their canes, a little way ahead and be- 
hind a newsboy who is crying U Action Frangaise in the 
radical quarter of the old Butte. 

Hemingway reminded his readers that French politics 
were unlike those of any other nation. "It is a very intimate 
politics, a politics of scandal." The long article, illustrated 
with photographs of Daudet and Philippe, and a facsimile 
of V Action Frangaise's masthead, ended with Hemingway's 
blunt citation of a 1922 interview in which Poincare had 
assured the press that France would never occupy the Ruhr. 
"Meantime," Hemingway concluded, without interpretive 
comment, "the French government has spent 160 million 
francs (official) on the occupation and Ruhr coal is costing 
France $200 a ton." Again the editor precised the next 
dispatch. "In the next article Mr. Hemingway will deal 
with the French press, telling how the papers are paid to 
print only what the government wants." 

The third article was a natural sequel to the analysis of 


the royalists, for Hemingway now made it clear that sub- 
scribers to U Action Fran ^aise were at least getting more 
than official hand-outs. 6 This was not the case with the 
average reader of a French paper. "What," Hemingway 
asked in his lead, "do the French people think about the 
Ruhr and the whole German question? You will not find 
out by reading the French press." This anomaly, by To- 
ronto standards, was the theme of the third dispatch, which 
continued the bi-weekly schedule of the series; the first 
article had been published on a Saturday, the second on the 
following Wednesday, and now the discussion of the 
French press appeared three days later, on Saturday, April 
21. Like its predecessor, it had been the subject of advance 
comment in the Star Weekly. "Did you know," a para- 
graph of advertisement had run, "that all European govern- 
ments have a special fund for newspaper publicity that does 
not have to be accounted for?" 7 Like its predecessor, too, it 
was again the front page feature. 

Hemingway's revelation for his Toronto audience was 
as blunt as possible. "French newspapers," he declared, "sell 
their news columns just as they do their advertising space." 
He tried to be detached in his exposition, but some cynicism 
was inevitable. "As a matter of fact," he wrote, "it is not 
considered very chic to advertise in the small advertising 
section of a French daily. The news item is supposed to be 
the only real way of advertising." Hemingway explained 
the process of subsidy and emphasized that the reader of 
every metropolitan daily found only such governmental 
news as the government chose to print. He applied this situ- 
ation to the Ruhr occupation. "When the government has 
any special news ... it pays the papers extra. If any of 
these enormously circulated daily papers refuses to print 
the government news or criticizes the government stand- 
point, the government withdraws their subsidy and the 
paper loses its biggest advertiser. Consequently the big 


Paris dailies are always for the government, any govern- 
ment that happens to be in." 

The resume of France's position had demonstrated his 
capacity for assessing and communicating a large block of 
material. The writing itself had never equaled the terse 
artistry of some of his Near East dispatches, which for the 
moment remained the best instances of his journalism as a 
technical transition toward fiction. Neither, on the other 
hand, had there been in these three Paris dispatches any 
of the excess of some of the work that preceded the Con- 
stantinople assignment. The articles indicate that he was 
achieving a maturity of attitude and self-control without 
which he would have remained merely one more talented 
young reporter. 

Above all the articles demonstrated his understanding of 
and identification with a nation not his own. The Sun Also 
Rises, begun two years later, would display a calm utiliza- 
tion of the European background, more effective than the 
heady, artistically confusing sense of exoticism that blurred 
many American treatments of an expatriate experience. The 
extent of his feeling for Paris, implicit in these three articles, 
permitted Hemingway to write of it in his novel without a 
labored crescendo of repetitive discovery. Paris, he said 
later, "was a fine place to be quite young in and it is a 
necessary part of a man's education." 8 In April, 1923, his 
Paris education already allowed him to write of the city 
with restraint. 

The material itself had been neither profound nor revo- 
lutionary; it was available to any observant newspaperman. 
The consistent fusing of observation and interest and stu- 
diousness into a well-balanced support of his talent was 
nevertheless an important progression. The progression was 
particularly noticeable when Hemingway in the subsequent 
installments returned to the same scenes from which eight 


months earlier had come the indifferent Black Forest re- 

The seven articles dealing with Germany got off to an 
inauspicious start. The Daily Star mishandled the sequence, 
breaking the pattern Hemingway was building. His plan 
had been to begin his survey of Germany with Offenburg, 
the southernmost limit of the French occupation. He him- 
self followed the scheme, and his first two dispatches, the 
fourth and fifth of the series, were datelined from the 
Baden railroad town. The Daily Star, however, jumbled the 
first three German dispatches in such a way that the second 
Offenburg story, chronologically speaking, was printed on 
April 25, a story from Frankfurt appeared on the following 
Saturday, and the first Offenburg article, describing the trip 
from Paris to Strasbourg and ending as Hemingway 
boarded the train for Offenburg, was printed on Wednes- 
day, May 2. The paper offered on that date a partial 
apology which confirms Hemingway's deliberate sequen- 
tial intent. 

It was merely one further professional vexation, of a kind 
that had been anticipated by the paper's cavalier treatment 
of his interviews with Mussolini and Clemenceau, and by 
its complaints, on another occasion, when he wrote pro- 
phetically and pessimistically about the German post-war 
currency. 9 The copy desk's carelessness broke the func- 
tional plan by which Hemingway was going to follow the 
international railway line from Offenburg to Karlsruhe to 
Frankfurt, on to Cologne and Diisseldorf. The plan had a 
neat simplicity, for the route not only carried the reader 
through the heart of the occupied region, but it also auto- 
matically clarified the occupation's failure. France's inabil- 
ity to keep the transportation artery flowing was a measure 
of her inability to make the occupation fruitful. Rearranged 


into their intended pattern, the two Offenburg dispatches 
give an effective picture of the process of getting to Ger- 
many and of the initial German scene. 

The fourth article, indeed, employed a treatment dif- 
ferent from the one Hemingway used in his three intro- 
ductory dispatches. 10 His first responsibility had been to 
inform; the treatment had been objective and undramatic. 
Now, however, his goal was mood and atmosphere. His 
treatment became scenic and dramatic. It was excellent 
training for a fictionalist; it was an exercise in the relation- 
ship between theme and style. The article also demon- 
strated a narrative control which permitted Hemingway to 
increase the story pace toward an episodic climax whose 
implications remained in the reader's mind without anti- 
climax as the dispatch ended. Even the carefully contrived 
gerunds are reminders that these had been the months of 
his increasing association with Gertrude Stein. "In the cold, 
grey, street-washing, milk-delivering, shutters-coming-off- 
the-shops, early morning," he wrote, "the midnight train 
from Paris arrived in Strasbourg." 

In the border town Hemingway had his first glimpse of 
the effects of the occupation. There were no trains running 
from Strasbourg into Germany. He took the tram, observ- 
ing closely the pictorial quality of the scene. "There is a 
great deal of description," Miss Stein had said of his early 
work, "and not very good description." Now his descrip- 
tion was much improved, its composition linear and im- 
mediate. "There were sharp peaked plastered houses 
criss-crossed with great wooden beams, the river wound 
and rewound through the town and each time we crossed it 
there were fishermen on the banks, there was the wide 
modern street with modern German shops with big glass 
show windows and new French names over their doors . . . 
a long stream of carts was coming in to market from the 
country, streets were being flushed and washed." Heming- 


way was trying to see each composition with a painter's 
vision; each new paragraph contained a central object for 
the eye. To this he was beginning to add tonal quality of 
sensation and statement. 

In the stretch of country that lies between Strasbourg 
and the Rhine the tram track runs along a canal and a big 
blunt nosed barge with LUSITANIA painted on its stern 
was being dragged smoothly along by two horses ridden 
by the bargeman's two children while breakfast smoke 
came out of the galley chimney and the bargeman leaned 
against the sweep. It was a nice morning. 

Hemingway was cleared by the customs inspector and 
walked down the road to the Kehl station. He wandered 
out to the track and discovered four French soldiers, "of 
the 170th Infantry Regiment, with full kit and fixed bay- 
onets." The indirect dialogue was a prophecy of the slick 
finish he gave to The Sun Also Rises in 1926 through pre- 
cisely the same device. "One of them told me there would 
be a train at 11:15 for Offenburg, a military tram; it was 
about half an hour to Offenburg, but this droll train 
would get there about two o'clock. He grinned. Monsieur 
was from Paris? What did monsieur think about the match 
Criqui-Zjawnny Kilbane? Ah. He had thought very much 
the same. He had always had the idea he was no fool, this 
Kilbane. The military service? Well, it was all the same. It 
made no difference where one did it. In two months now he 
would be through. It was a shame he was not free, perhaps 
we could have a talk together. Monsieur had seen this Kil- 
bane box? The new wine was not bad at the buffet. But 
after all he was on guard. The buffet is straight down the 
corridor. If monsieur leaves the baggage here it will be all 

Hemingway made the buffet the story's climax. Every- 


thing in the dispatch had been a preparation for this. There 
was a neat balance by which the waiter became the major 
character, supplemented by the tableau-like figures who 
drifted in and out of the restaurant. Hemingway did not 
reproduce with dull fidelity all the scene or its speech; his 
selective condensation was completely a device of the short 
story rather than the conventional feature article. It is the 
technique as well as the milieu which remind us of so many 
of the episodes and structures of his early fiction. 

In the buffet was a sad-looking waiter in a dirty shirt . . . 
a long bar and two forty-year-old French second lieuten- 
ants sitting at a table in the corner. I bowed as I entered, 
and they both saluted. 

"No," the waiter said, "there is no milk. You can have 
black coffee, but it is ersatz coffee. The beer is good." 

The waiter sat down at the table. "No, there is no one 
here now," he said. "All the people you say you saw in 
July cannot come now. The French will not give them 
passports to come into Germany." 

"How do they get along with the French here in town?" 

"No trouble. They are good people. Just like us. Some 
of them are nasty sometimes, but they are good people. 
Nobody hates, except profiteers. They had something to 
lose. We haven't had any fun since 1914. If you make any 
money it gets no good, and there is only to spend it. That 
is what we do. Some day it will be over. I don't know how. 
Last year I had enough money saved up to buy a gasthaus 
in Hernberg; now that money wouldn't buy four bottles of 

Hemingway preserved the scene's strength by ending 
the dispatch quickly, but without an abruptness that would 
have thrown the buffet vignette out of focus. "There was a 
shrill peep of a whistle outside. I paid and shook hands with 


the waiter, saluted the two forty-year-old second lieuten- 
ants, who were now playing checkers at their table, and 
went out to take the military train to Offenburg." 

The fifth article picked up this narrative thread with easy 
consistency. 11 "Offenburg," his lead began, "is the southern 
limit of the French occupation of Germany. It is a clean, 
neat little town with the hills of the Black Forest rising on 
one side and the Rhine plain stretching off on the other." 
Hemingway was impressed by the calm solidarity of the 
German resistance. He had talked to many natives; he re- 
produced these conversations in his dispatches without any 
of the earlier, Black Forest series' arch references to his 
awkward German. They had all told him of their personal 
debt to the government, which supported the unemployed 
with public funds. He hitch-hiked from Offenburg to Or- 
tenberg, where there was a north-bound train service. The 
article's final passage was an account of the ride he got on 
a motor truck. 

His treatment here had the same forcefully creative 
quality that had distinguished the initial Offenburg dis- 
patch. Detached from the long expository introduction 
about the railroad problem, these paragraphs were a self- 
sufficient sketch, five or six hundred words of the narrative 
and portraiture he later achieved in such early published 
vignettes as "The Revolutionist." The opening paragraph 
was blunt and careful, wholly in the structural idiom of his 
later fiction. "The driver was a short, blonde German with 
sunken cheeks and faded blue eyes. He had been badly 
gassed at the Somme. We were riding along a white, dusty 
road through green fields forested with hop poles, their 
tangled wires flopping. We crossed a wide, swift, clearly 
pebbled stream with a flock of geese resting on a gravel 
island. A manure spreader was busily clicking in the field. 
In the distance were the blue Schwartzwald hills." There 
was no break between these opening lines of the sketch and 


its immediate extension by authentic, stylized paragraphs of 
unadorned, functional dialogue. 

"My brother," said the driver, guiding the big wheel 
with one arm half wrapped around it. "He had hard luck." 


"Ja. He never had no luck, my brother." 

"What was he doing?" 

"He was signal man on the railroad from Kehl. The 
French put him out. All the signal men. The day they came 
to OfFenburg, they gave them all twenty-four hours." 

"But the government pays him, doesn't it?" 

"Oh yes. They pay him. But he can't live on it." 

"What's the matter?" 

"Well, he's got seven kids. . . . They pay him what he 
got, but the prices are up and where he was signal man he 
had a little garden. It makes a difference when you got a 

"What's he do now?" I asked. 

"He tried working in the sawmill at Hausach, but he 
can't work good inside. He's got the gas like me. Ja. He's 
got no luck, my brother." 

Taken together in this way, with the sketches and vi- 
gnettes isolated from the firm but conventional exposition, 
the two OfFenburg articles represented a new creativity in 
Hemingway's journalism. His apprenticeship was nearly 
completed; certainly it was entering its final phase. He was 
beginning to be able to do occasionally, even under the in- 
hibitions of his journalistic medium, what he would soon do 
with regularity in the steady production of short stories 
during the first few years of his professional career. 

That his apprenticeship was not wholly completed, how- 
ever, was demonstrated by the sixth German dispatch. 12 
Datelined from Frankfurt-on-Main, and designed to follow 


the second Offenburg article, it was not in any way the 
equal of its pair of predecessors. The Trapeze-style wit was 
full of condescension for his audience, his talent, and his 
material. The tone itself was in many ways a return to the 
juvenile belligerence of his 1922 Black Forest series. The 
idiom and point of view, as well as the careless style and 
structure, had the same glib facility and the broad, spoiled 

Then we talked about the war. I asked the [brave Bel- 
gian] lady if she had been in Belgium during the occupa- 

"Yes," she said. 

"How was it? Pretty bad?" I asked. 

The B.B. lady snorted, her most powerful Belgian snort. 
"I did not suffer at all." 

I believe her. In fact, having traveled with the brave Bel- 
gian lady, I am greatly surprised and unable to understand 
how the Germans ever got into Belgium at all. 

The seventh dispatch, mailed from Mainz on April 22, 
was more reassuring. 13 It established that the quality of the 
Offenburg articles had not been a fluke. The opening sec- 
tion was mainly expository. Hemingway used a cross- 
section survey to vivify and document the impact of 
inflation upon the German people. He described the night 
he spent in a luxury hotel, in order to "investigate how the 
profiteers lived," and he recounted too the fluctuations of 
prices from town to town along his route. During the 
previous week, "investigating the actual living conditions," 
he had talked to a small factory owner, several workmen, a 
hotel keeper, and a high school professor. He recorded a 
long paragraph of dialogue from the first three citizen- 
groups, but his strongest emphasis was on the teacher. 

There were three paragraphs of detailed and informative 


speech by the white collar representative, paralleling those 
by the other witnesses; then, in the closing lines of the dis- 
patch, Hemingway once again became the creative writer 
rather than the journalist. The final section was another of 
the notable internal sketches he began in Kehl. 

"But how will it all come out?" I asked him. 

"We can only trust in God," he said. Then he smiled. 
"We used to trust in God and the government, we Ger- 
mans. Now I no longer trust the government." 

"I heard you playing very beautifully on the flute when 
I came to the door," I said, rising to go. 

"You know the flute? You like the flute? I will play for 

So we sat in the dusk in the ugly little parlor and the 
schoolmaster played very beautifully on the flute. Outside 
people were going by in the main street of the town. The 
children came in silently and sat down. After a time the 
schoolmaster stopped and stood up very embarrassedly. 

"It is a very nice instrument, the flute," he said. 

Hemingway mailed his next dispatch from Cologne, five 
days later. 14 The Daily Star printed it on May 9, still main- 
taining the Wednesday-Saturday cycle of publication. The 
article contained none of the careful, semi-fictional vi- 
gnettes that were making the series so clearly a transitional 
step toward his creative work, but, at the same time, it was 
an expository enlargement of the sketch about the high 
school professor. There was real distress in Hemingway's 
reaction to the acute suffering which accompanied infla- 
tion; it reaffirmed the fact that a basis of the evocative 
sketches was his new capacity to respond without restric- 
tive prejudice. 

"There are no beggars," he wrote. "No horrible exam- 
ples on view. No visible famine sufferers nor hungry chil- 


dren that besiege the railway stations." Hemingway stressed 
this paradox of national well being. "The tourist leaves Ger- 
many," he maintained, "wondering what all this starving 
business is about. The country looks prosperous." He 
bluntly stated the reality. "For every ten professional beg- 
gars in Italy," he wrote bitterly, "there are a hundred 
amateur starvers in Germany." He defined this poignant 
conception. "An amateur starver does not starve in public." 
As the dispatch ended, the briefest of the series, Heming- 
way's newly powerful impulse toward artistic composition 
displayed itself tentatively. "In the evening," he noted, "the 
brilliant red or the dark blue of the officer's formal mess kit 
that is compulsory for those officers who dine in Cologne, 
colors the drab civilian crowds. Outside in the street Ger- 
man children dance on the pavement to the music that 
comes from the windows of the ball room of the officers' 

This vestige of the Offenburg and Mainz sketches was 
the final appearance of any memorable writing in the series. 
As always during his newspaper career, Hemingway's best 
effects depended on the extent of his response to his ma- 
terial; the response was given with increasing reluctance, 
and it invariably perished quickly. His ninth article illus- 
trated this process. 15 His instinct for a provocative approach 
was shown by his resumption of the theme of hatred in the 
occupied zone; his artistic numbness restricted him to an 
expository investigation of the tension. The lead was a 
promise of further vignettes. "You feel the hate in the 
Ruhr," he began, "as an actual concrete thing. It is as 
definite as the unswept, cinder-covered sidewalks of Diis- 
seldorf or the long rows of grimy brick cottages, each one 
exactly like the next, where the workmen of Essen live." 
He never clothed this theme, however, with anything bur 
straightforward documentation through standard, un- 
dramatized anecdote and political analysis. Once, briefly, 


when he had been describing the momentary German unity 
in the first days of the French occupation, he seemed on 
the verge of something creative. 

"It was most uplifting," an old German woman told me. 
"You should have been here. Never have I been so uplifted 
since the great days of the victories. Oh, how they sang. 
Ach, it was wonderful." 

Hemingway stopped there, returning to his conventional 
account of the large outlines of the situation. He could 
visualize sketches and vignettes in the material, as it were, 
but he lacked the impulse to attempt any more creative 
fragments. He was already anticipating and preparing for 
the end of the series. He began to curve the material back 
toward France and the themes of his three introductory 
articles. "The end of the Ruhr venture," he concluded, 
"looks very near." 

The final dispatch of the series, as well as the manner of 
its publication, testified with painful clarity to Heming- 
way's loss of interest in the assignment. 16 John Bone had 
been able to promise and maintain the Wednesday-Saturday 
cycle of publication only as long as Hemingway mailed the 
articles regularly. When the managing editor printed the 
ninth dispatch, however, on Saturday, May 12, he could 
not pledge, as before, that its sequel would appear on the 
following Wednesday. He hadn't received it. Bone could 
merely assert that "the tenth will be published in a few 
days." 17 When the tenth article did arrive in Toronto, date- 
lined from Diisseldorf on May 5, Bone printed it promptly 
and was able to preserve the bi-weekly sequence. Again, 
however, he had no assurance to its successor, for the 
prefatory note on May 16 simply said once more that "the 
next will be published in a few days." 18 At this point Hem- 
ingway suddenly wound up the assignment; no further 


articles were printed, although Bone clearly anticipated at 
least an eleventh story. 

The last dispatch, therefore, was not a clear-cut terminal 
article. It had the same aura of imminent completion as the 
first Diisseldorf story, but there was no deliberate summa- 
tion. As before, Hemingway continued to see the material 
in terms of dramatic sketches; as before, he never permitted 
them to materialize. Some of his paragraphs, as he left the 
Ruhr assignment, were virtually a first draft of what he 
was visualizing, reminders again that his apprenticeship was 
ending, and containing all the elements of brief, effective 
vignettes save final execution. 

Hiking along the road that runs through the dreary brick 
outskirts of Diisseldorf out into the pleasant open country 
that rolls in green swells patched with timber between the 
smoky towns of the Ruhr, you pass slow-moving French 
ammunition carts, the horses led by short, blue-uniformed, 
quiet-faced Chinamen, their tin hats on the back of their 
heads. . . . French cavalry patrols ride by. Two broad-faced 
Westphalian iron puddlers who are sitting under a tree and 
drawing their unemployment pay watch the cavalry out of 
sight around a bend of the road. 

I borrowed a match from one of the iron puddlers. They 
are Westphalians, hard-headed, hard-muscled, uncivil and 
friendly. They want to go snipe shooting. The snipe have 
just come with the spring, but they haven't any shot guns. 
They laugh at the little Indo-Chinamen with their ridicu- 
lous big, blue helmets on the back of their heads and they 
applaud one little Annamite who has gotten way behind 
the column and is trotting along to catch up, holding his 
horse's bridle, sweat running down his face, his helmet jog- 
gling down over his eyes. The little Annamite smiles hap- 


Hemingway left Germany as soon as he had mailed that 
tenth dispatch. He had spent six weeks on the assignment 
and written almost twenty thousand words. As journalism, 
his treatment had been invariably competent, occasionally 
excellent; as prose, the treatment had been frequently pro- 
vocative and in several instances so good as to make certain 
dispatches memorable. He had shown genuine vocational 
dexterity, handling with poise an assignment that could 
have developed in a cheap and hackneyed pattern. 

For the first time, too, his newspaper writing could be 
accurately described as an undeniable indication of his 
talent and development as a creative writer. In spite of its 
ambiguous conclusion, the series confirmed and enlarged 
the managing editor's regard for him. "An important ad- 
dition even to the Lloyd George articles," one of the blurbs 
had said, referring to a current series by the former prime 
minister, "are those by Hemingway, who is well known to 
thousands of Daily Star readers. His close-up pictures of 
Mussolini and Tchitcherin, his despatches from Genoa, 
Constantinople, and Rapallo, where he was sent by The 
Star, were followed by [sic] intense interest." 19 

John Bone had printed six of the ten articles on the front 
page of the Daily Star. Three of the remaining four ap- 
peared on the important page one of the second section, 
and the other, the initial dispatch of the series, was pub- 
lished on page four of the first section. None of the stories 
had been buried in the back pages. Most of them were 
illustrated, and they had all been both by-lined and copy- 
righted. The material had been consistently featured during 
a six-week period by a metropolitan daily. The advertise- 
ments had stressed the reporter and his talents as much as 
the contents of the series itself. "Hemingway," according 
to one of Star Weekly's paragraphs, "has not only a 


genius for newspaper work, but for the short story as well. 
He is an extraordinarily gifted and picturesque writer." 
The next line was ironic in its implication that Hemingway 
preferred to reserve his energy for his Toronto journalism. 
"Besides his despatches for The Star, he writes very little 
else, only two or three stories a year." 20 

The Star Weekly might have added, however, that the 
material profit from the German series would now enable 
Hemingway to write more fiction than had been previously 
possible. A month generally elapsed between the time when 
the young American filed an expense account and the mo- 
ment when the Star's check arrived in Paris. By the middle 
of June, 1923, therefore, Hemingway was sufficiently se- 
cure so that he did no further journalism that summer. He 
went from Germany directly back to the Dolomites, where 
he had left his wife, and they returned together to Paris. 
Hemingway spent the next ten weeks on his own work. 
The writing which he resumed and completed during June 
and July of 1923, particularly the second project he under- 
took, was wholly natural in the light of what he had occa- 
sionally experimented with in the German dispatches. 
While he was correcting the proofs of Three Stories & Ten 
Poems, he prepared for publication the vignettes of in our 



"Fame was what they wanted in that 

Hemingway encountered most of the significant experi- 
ences of his personal and professional life before he was 
twenty-five years old. None of these experiences was 
unique in a man so young; as a cluster of episodes, how- 
ever, they were premature, and pertinent in terms of the 
early maturity of his style and literary attitudes. He was 
barely eighteen when he began his vocation. He was not 
yet nineteen when he was severely wounded in the war. At 
nineteen he was the victim of an acutely unhappy love 
affair. He was married at twenty-two, a father two years 
later. He was a foreign correspondent when he was twenty- 
two, and a month after his twenty-fourth birthday, in 
August, 1923, he received his first major publication as a 
creative writer. 

For Hemingway publication had a significance beyond 
the conventional connotations of acceptance and recogni- 
tion. It hastened the abandonment of intrusive journalism. 
It confirmed his talent; this was of special importance to a 
temperament as competitive as his. Most important of all, 
publication allowed Hemingway to complete his appren- 
ticeship and initiate the proper beginnings of his artistic 
career. "I am glad to have it out," he wrote Edmund Wil- 

PARIS 225 

son in November, 1923, three months after the appearance 
of Three Stones & Ten Poems, "and once it is published 
it is back of you." 2 

The comment was precociously acute. Hemingway's life 
and work have been deliberately and severely compart- 
mentalized, displaying a chapter-like development that has 
required the specific emergence from one period as a pre- 
lude to entrance into its successor. "In writing," he said 
many years later, during what he regarded as just such a 
completion and inaugural, "I have moved through arith- 
metic, through plane geometry and algebra, and now I am 
in calculus." 3 He could not commence the phase of his 
work which began in the summer of 1925 with the writing 
of The Sun Also Rises until he had completed the material 
which had its origins in his journalism and in his associa- 
tions with Anderson, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. This 
material, the finale of his newspaper career and the initial 
compartment of his formal artistic life, included Three 
Stories & Ten Poems, in our time, In Our Time, and The 
Torrents of Spring. Hemingway himself has dated his work 
as beginning with Three Stories & Ten Poems. "The only 
work of mine that I endorse or sign as my true work," he 
said in 1951, "is what I have published since Three Stories 
& Ten Poems and the first In Our Time? It was an aus- 
picious beginning. 

The sequence of these two expatriate pamphlets, how- 
ever, was not as had been planned, in our time, which dif- 
fered from the 1925 In Our Time in that it contained only 
the brief vignettes which function as inter-chapters be- 
tween the short stories of In Our Time, was originally 
scheduled to be published before the stories and verse, 
"but," Hemingway once explained, "being hand printed at 
Bill Bird's press and he having plenty of other things to do, 
it was delayed until 1924." 4 Three Stories & Ten Poems 
therefore became Hemingway's first volume. 5 Advance 


copies were ready by the middle of August, 1923, printed 
in Dijon and published by Robert McAlmon's Contact 
Publishing Company. Hemingway was pleased to be part 
of a series of books by such expatriates as Marsden Hartley, 
Mina Loy, and William Carlos Williams. He sent a copy 
to his family in Oak Park and another to Bill Home, and 
when he got to Toronto in September, 1923, he gave sev- 
eral to his friends on the Star. The copy he presented to 
Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas was inscribed to them 
"with love from Hemingway." Miss Stein told Heming- 
way in the fall of 1923 that she had written a review of 
Three Stories & Ten Poems, but the notice never ap- 
peared. 6 

Edmund Wilson, however, published a joint review of 
it and in our time in the Dial the next year. 7 Hemingway 
thus had the good fortune to receive his first American 
comment from a critic wiio continued to be one of his 
most sensitive interpreters. Wilson felt that in our time was 
"the more important book." Most of his review was de- 
voted to its vignettes and sketches. He had little to say 
about the three short stories in Three Stories & Ten Poems, 
save to outline the relationship between Anderson, Hem- 
ingway, and Gertrude Stein. As for the verse, Wilson con- 
cluded that "Mr. Hemingway's poems are not particularly 
important." 8 

Hemingway himself said nothing about the poetry in his 
correspondence with Wilson in the fall of 1923, nor has he 
ever commented in detail on his own verse or on poetry in 
general. He has written many introductions to volumes of 
prose, but never to a book of verse. On the basis of casual 
statements his attitude seems to be the responsible, Poundian 
one that good poetry is as important as good prose, but even 
more rare, and that on the whole most poetry is written 
without the concentration it requires, and whose absence 
is more easily detectable in prose. Hemingway has enun- 

PARIS 227 

ciated his own taste in contemporary verse by his positive 
response to the verse of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. "All 
of Eliot's poems are perfect," Hemingway wrote in 1925, 
"and there are very few of them. He has a very fine talent 
and he is very careful of it. He never takes chances with it 
and it is doing very well thank you." 9 He went on to de- 
clare that Pound, on the other hand, was a major poet. "A 
damned good poet," Hemingway said of Eliot, many years 
later, "and a fair critic, but he would not have existed ex- 
cept for dear old Ezra, the lovely poet and stupid traitor." 10 
It was from Ezra Pound's edicts about imagism, in fact, 
and from their application to his own verse, that Heming- 
way profited most strongly from the exercise of writing 
poetry. 11 He employed the same intensely concentrated 
pattern that he would use in the more important prose ex- 
ercises of in our time. If Hemingway lacked a capacity for 
deeply sustained, original poetic expression, there was no 
doubt of his gift for the forceful enunciation of emotion 
and, above all, absorbing narrative. The best of the poems 
in Three Stories & Ten Poems 12 particularly "Along with 
Youth," "Oklahoma," and "Montparnasse" were sharp 
and focused, with everything emerging from a minutely 
examined object. His poems, like the vignettes and sketches 
of in our time, were a final exercise in the completion of 
an apprenticeship that was rooted in journalism but was 
now growing beyond it. 


It was in our time done, after all, in the prose medium 
for which its author had been training that demonstrated 
most clearly Hemingway's progress as a writer. Although 
the book was not published until the next year, in March, 
1924, in our time was written, like the poems and the three 
short stories, during the first European period of 1922 and 


1923. 13 The vignettes were a blueprint of what Hemingway 
was attempting stylistically and a definition of the attitudes 
he was forming about his experiences. There has frequently 
been an attempt to endow the vignettes either with a bio- 
graphical sequence or with a sketch-by-sketch relationship 
to the short stories among which they were ultimately 
placed in In Our Time in 1925. The effect of these distor- 
tions is to belittle Hemingway's intention and achievement 
in the vignettes. 

The sketches do not preserve an accurate chronology of 
Hemingway's personal life. Their only chronology is the 
chronology in which they were written. A vignette derived 
from Kansas City is placed after vignettes drawn from the 
war and from European newspaper work; bullfighting 
sketches, based upon episodes observed in Spain in 1922 
and 1923, precede the sketch of Nick Adams being 
wounded in Italy in 1918. When Louis Cohn was preparing 
the first substantial Hemingway bibliography, in 1931, he 
discussed a number of such questions with his friend. u The 
chapters [i.e., vignettes]," Cohn reported, "are to be con- 
sidered as separate entities." 14 When Hemingway wrote 
them in Europe in 1923 he was using them as tools of self- 
instruction. "I was trying to write then," he said in 1932, 
"and I found the greatest difficulty, aside from knowing 
truly what you felt, rather than what you were supposed 
to feel, and had been taught to feel, was to put down what 
really happened in action; what the actual things were 
which produced the emotion that you experienced." 15 He 
also declared, on that same occasion, that he had been in- 
terested in "life and death . . . commencing with the sim- 
plest things." Hemingway cited specific illustrations of 
what he meant by "these very simple things": "... in 
the case of an execution by a firing squad," he explained, 
"or a hanging. . . ." 

When he discussed his apprenticeship in Death in the 

PARIS 229 

Afternoon in 1932, in other words, he was talking ex- 
plicitly about the vignettes of in our time. The vignettes 
were, quite literally, composed, and with painful, artisti- 
cally instructive care. Furthermore, rearranged into basic 
groups war, bullfighting, journalism they simultane- 
ously demonstrate the development of Hemingway's fun- 
damental themes and attitudes. The balance between the 
three sets of experience was an exact one: six sketches dealt 
with war, six with bullfighting, and six with newspaper 
experiences. The latter are in certain ways the most signifi- 
cant of the sketches. In two instances Hemingway's initial 
treatment of the material is available as a Toronto Star 
dispatch. The cycle of his compositional process can thus 
be followed through three drafts: newspaper dispatch; 
publication in the Little Review in April, 1923 16 ; and final 
revision in the summer of 1923 for in our time. 


The first version of "chapter 3" of in our time was 
cabled to Toronto from Adrianople on October 20, 1922. 17 
A revision was published as the third of the Little Review 
series in April, 1923. The final draft which Hemingway 
gave to Bill Bird for in our time was completely declarative. 

Minarets stuck up in the rain out of Adrianople across the 
mud flats. The carts were jammed for thirty miles along 
the Karagatch road. Water buffalo and cattle were hauling 
carts through the mud. No end and no beginning. Just 
carts loaded with everything they owned. The old men and 
women, soaked through, walked along keeping the cattle 
moving. The Maritza was running yellow almost up to 
the bridge. Carts were jammed solid on the bridge with 
camels bobbing along through them. Greek cavalry herded 
along the procession. Women and kids were in the carts 


crouched with mattresses, mirrors, sewing machines, bun- 
dles. There was a woman having a kid with a young girl 
holding a blanket over her and crying. Scared sick looking 
at it. It rained all through the evacuation. 

The 1922 cable, although it had many points of likeness 
with the finished vignette, differed from it in several im- 
portant respects. Its last two paragraphs were general ones, 
describing the relief agencies that were operating in 
Thrace. These paragraphs had no validity for the re- 
drafting of the dispatch into the vignette; none of the 
material appears in the second, Little Review draft, or in 
the final, in our time version. The cable's first three para- 
graphs, however, do constitute that first draft. 

In a never-ending, staggering march the Christian popu- 
lation of Eastern Thrace is jamming the roads towards 
Macedonia. The main column crossing the Maritza River 
at Adrianople is twenty miles long. Twenty miles of carts 
drawn by cows, bullocks and muddy-flanked water buffalo, 
with exhausted, staggering men, women and children, 
blankets over their heads, walking blindly in the rain be- 
side their worldly goods. 

This main stream is being swelled from all the back 
country. They don't know where they are going. They 
left their farms, villages and ripe, brown fields and joined 
the main stream of refugees when they heard the Turk was 
coming. Now they can only keep their places in the ghastly 
procession while mud-splashed Greek cavalry herd them 
along like cow-punchers driving steers. 

It is a silent procession. Nobody even grunts. It is all 
they can do to keep moving. Their brilliant peasant cos- 
tumes are soaked and draggled. Chickens dangle by their 
feet from the carts. Calves nuzzle at the draught cattle 
wherever a jam halts the stream. An old man marches bent 

PARIS 231 

under a young pig, a scythe and a gun, with a chicken tied 
to his scythe. A husband spreads a blanket over a woman in 
labor in one of the carts to keep off the driving rain. She 
is the only person making a sound. Her little daughter 
looks at her in horror and begins to cry. And the proces- 
sion keeps moving. 

The three paragraphs for the Daily Star were more than 
competent journalism. They were well- written by any 
standards. This was the cable which so impressed Lincoln 
Steffens, when Hemingway showed it to him at Lausanne 
in December, 1922. When Steffens wrote about the inci- 
dent almost ten years later, in his autobiography, he even 
used some of Hemingway's own words. Steffens remem- 
bered the story as "a short but vivid, detailed picture of 
what [Hemingway] had seen in that miserable stream of 
hungry, frightened, uprooted people." 18 Steffens inevitably 
recalled the story in terms of adjectives; Hemingway had 
used a variety of modifiers in the cable. The process of re- 
drafting began here. 

Save for such virtually corporate words as "thirty," 
"mud," and "Greek," the in our time vignette contained 
only ten legitimate adjectives: no, used twice, loaded, old, 
yellow, soaked, solid, young, scared, and sick. Three were 
participles, and the twice-employed "no" was not a con- 
ventional descriptive adjective. Hemingway relied in the 
final draft on four basic modifiers, old, yellow, young, and 
sick. This was in sharp contrast to the cabled first draft, 
where, sharp and clear as he made it, he nevertheless used 
almost thirty adjectives. He relied there on compound 
modifiers such as "never-ending," "muddy-flanked," and 
"mud-splashed." He used such adjectival sequences as "ex- 
hausted, staggering," and "ripe, brown." He used such 
familiar modifiers as "worldly goods," and pejorative ad- 
jectives like "ghastly." This was one of the devices Hem- 


ingway had in mind when he spoke later of the limitations 
of journalism. "In writing for a newspaper," he declared in 
1932, "you told what happened and, with one trick and 
another, you communicated the emotion aided by the ele- 
ment of timeliness which gives a certain emotion to any 
account of something that has happened on that day." 19 

There were other tricks which the necessities of dead- 
lines and hasty readers compelled a reporter to rely on. 
Hemingway's best journalism, of which the Adrianople 
cable was an example, used the tricks sparingly, but they 
could not be concealed. "If a writer of prose knows enough 
about what he is writing about," Hemingway said in 1932, 
"he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the 
writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those 
things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. 
The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one- 
eighth of it being above water." 20 In newspaper writing, 
however, most of the effects had to be well above the sur- 
face; none of them could be totally submerged. 

The 1922 cable, for example, was directed for the reader 
by a series of comments from the author. "They don't 
know where they are going," Hemingway had written of 
the refugees. He was deliberately shaping the reader's re- 
sponse as a supplement to the overt impact of the scene he 
was describing. He continued the prodding when he told 
his Toronto audience that "now they can only keep their 
places." "It is all they can do to keep moving," he added 
later. Even the most obtuse reader would sense the 
tragedy, but the dimension which Hemingway later termed 
the architectural element of writing was necessarily lost by 
this reportorial steering. There was additional, less direct 
commentary to guide the newspaper reader. When Hem- 
ingway wrote of the "brilliant peasant costumes," now be- 
come "soaked and draggled," he was also pushing his 
audience toward a reaction. Phrases such as "to keep off 

PARIS 233 

the driving rain" and "in horror" were equally pejorative, 
designed to get through quickly to readers who ran while 
they read. 

All of this relatively heavy shaping was cleansed from 
the vignettes. The ultimate effect became proportionately 
more forceful by virtue of the new understatement and 
compression. In the in our time draft the reader's horror 
was far greater because he seemed to be reaching his own 
conclusions. The sketch was also made more evocative, at a 
subtler level, by the new image Hemingway introduced. 
The metaphor of the cable was both strong and familiar. 
Hemingway had enforced it by the most direct exposition. 
"Now they can only keep their places in the ghastly pro- 
cession," he cabled, "while mud-splashed Greek cavalry 
herd them along like cow-punchers driving steers." The 
grim likeness between the procession and a cattle drive is 
retained in the vignette, but it has ceased to be the central 
image. In a direct way it survives only in the verb of the 
ninth sentence. In the second draft, in fact, for the Little 
Review, Hemingway eliminated "herded" altogether. His 
substitution of "rode hard on" did not satisfy him. It was 
too explicit. 

That momentary choice, however, did contain an ele- 
ment of the new image driftwood, or, even more precise, 
the log floats Hemingway had seen all through his boyhood 
in northern Michigan. He re-emphasized the verb "jammed," 
used only once in the cable. The reference to the camels is 
an entirely new one, particularly important because it per- 
mitted the introduction of the gerund "bobbing." Gerunds, 
indeed, had a new importance in the vignette. The form, 
with all its utility for the communication of movement and 
flow, occurs ten times in the sketch. Approximately one out 
of every thirteen words was now a gerund. Not content 
with this emphasis, nor with the exhaustive revision as a 
whole, Hemingway inserted an additional, eleventh gerund 


when the vignette was republished in 1925 in In Our Time; 
in the sixth sentence he changed "walked" to "walking." 21 

The effect of the driftwood image was to vivify the 
paragraph. The equation with a log jam is fresher and more 
denotative than the cattle metaphor. The procession is still 
moving forward, as in the cable, but its progress is even 
more sluggish; it is resisted, as a log jam is resisted, by its 
own pressure. The frame within which the scene is held has 
been altered to fit the new image. An artist in the best of his 
journalism, Hemingway had bound the cable by the pro- 
cession metaphor. "In a never-ending, staggering march," 
he had cabled in the first line, "the Christian population of 
Eastern Thrace is jamming the roads towards Macedonia." 
The last sentence of the first draft had knotted the image. 
"And the procession," he concluded in 1922, "keeps mov- 

For the second, Little Review draft, the frame was com- 
pletely remade. The first line of the vignette not only states 
the image and introduces the frame, as had been done in 
the cable, but also initiates the affirmation of the image. 
"Minarets," the sketch begins, "stuck up in the rain out of 
Adrianople across the mud flats." As the reader moves into 
the paragraph, the minarets become the long poles which 
are scattered upright along the path of a log run. Through- 
out the body of the sketch there is a constant emphasis and 
restatement of the saturated, almost submerged quality of 
the scene. The water-logged immobility is in every line. "It 
rained," the vignette ends, "all through the evaluation." 

This was not the last step in the process of revision. The 
compositional structure of the cable had been primarily one 
of paragraphs and cumulative effect. The second and third 
drafts became exercises in directional composition, more 
subtle than the adjectival steering of the cable. It was a 
prelude of the pictorial device that would be tested in an 
occasional Ruhr dispatch in April and May of 1923. "Chap- 

PARIS 235 

ter 3" of in our time is dominated by two figures who had 
been merely part of the crowded scene in the Daily Star 
cable. The woman in labor, and her weeping daughter, are 
no longer details in the panoramic sweep of cavalry, an old 
man, cows, water buffalo, carts, a husband, men, women, 
children, calves, a young pig. Hemingway has drawn the 
woman and her child out of the procession and made them 
the central object. Were the vignette an etching, they 
would be in a lower corner, the procession behind and 
around them, illuminated by the story which is told in the 
faces and positions of these two victims. This was the 
Goya-like quality Hemingway deliberately sought to inject 
into the vignettes of in our time; a large, incomprehensible 
human tragedy was vivified by the episode within it. The 
husband did not survive the rewriting. Now the weight of 
our response falls upon the young girl, and the horror of 
her situation is thereby magnified. There is not even a 
father to shield her. 

Such a deletion was a functional pruning of the same 
kind which persuaded Hemingway to rearrange in each 
draft the pitiful list of possessions the refugees clutched. In 
the cable he used the phrase "worldly goods," stale and 
unevocative, supplemented by the entire third paragraph's 
precise catalogue. For the Little Review all this excessive 
clutter was reduced to a single sentence. "Women and kids 
were in the carts crouched with mattresses, mirrors, sewing 
machines, bundles, sacks of things." In the final draft for 
in our time, still anxious to eliminate the unspecific, Hem- 
ingway erased "sacks of things." The possessions were the 
more poignant by their specific meagerness. 22 

The transformation of experience into final draft had 
been a complicated process, extending over a period of 
several months and marked by absorption so scrupulous 
that as late as 1930, when Scribner's republished In Our 
Time, Hemingway continued to make revisions in the 


vignette. At that time he repressed the surviving cabelese 
by inserting "There was" in the fourth sentence. He added 
a comma in the tenth line after "carts," and, still preoccu- 
pied with pictorial composition, he described the woman in 
labor as having a "baby" rather than a "kid." 

This concern with precision was much more than a 
characteristic of youthful intensity or expatriate craftsman- 
ship. It has continued all through Hemingway's mature 
work, a persistent reflex dictated by his own artistic de- 
mands. A Hemingway manuscript is a facsimile of the 
three drafts of "chapter 3" of in our time, adjectives 
crossed out, more precise modifiers inserted above the 
erasures, punctuation meticulously altered to give weight 
to key words, good verbs replaced by better ones. The 
vignettes of in our time, made possible by both the demands 
and the inadequacies of newspaper work, are the solid base 
of Hemingway's work. 


None of the other five newspaper vignettes is as com- 
positionally instructive as the sketch of the refugee pro- 
cession. Each of them, however, reaffirms the debt to jour- 
nalism and to Paris tutorials. The scenes Hemingway chose 
were characteristic of the world into which he had 
thrust himself as a police reporter and war correspondent, 
violent and brutish, but invariably made complex and sig- 
nificant by some private gesture or act within the scene. 

"Chapter 6" was the last of the six Little Review vig- 
nettes. It was also the only one which survived intact the 
transcription from magazine to book. Hemingway made no 
revisions in it either in the summer of 1923 or later when he 
was preparing it for In Our Time in 1924. It was a flawless 
rendition into a creative paragraph of the cabelese he had 
so admired in journalism and of the blunt declaration he 
had been absorbing from Sherwood Anderson and Ger- 

PARIS 237 

trude Stein. Its limitation derived from this same rigidity of 
syntax. The paragraph is without variation of rhetoric or 
level; verb followed subject in each of the eleven sentences 
with the dull perfection of a military ritual. 

They shot the six cabinet ministers at half-past six in the 
morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools 
of water in the courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on 
the paving of the courtyard. It rained hard. All the shutters 
of the hospital were nailed shut. One of the ministers was 
sick with typhoid. Two soldiers carried him downstairs and 
out into the rain. They tried to hold him up against the wall 
but he sat down in a puddle of water. The other five stood 
very quietly against the wall. Finally the officer told the 
soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up. When 
they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water 
with his head on his knees. 

Like the refugee vignette, "chapter 6" derived from 
Hemingway's 1922 assignment in the Near East. It had not 
been observed, however, nor had it been sifted through the 
draft of a dispatch to the Daily Star. Hemingway had been 
back in Europe for a month by the time the six Greek 
ministers were shot in Athens on November 28, 1922. In 
Paris, however, Hemingway again encountered an Ameri- 
can movie cameraman whom he first met at Madame 
Marie's in Adrianople in October. Shorty Wornall brought 
him up to date on what took place after Hemingway's de- 
parture from the area. Hemingway was attempting in 
"chapter 6" to reproduce not only the execution scene 
which Shorty described to him, but also the film operator's 
idiom. There is a distinct parallel between the diction of the 
vignette and the lines Shorty had spoken in one of Hem- 
ingway's Daily Star dispatches. 


"Got some swell shots of a burning village to-day." 
Shorty pulled off a boot. "Good show a burning village. 
Like kickin' over an ant hill. Shorty pulled off the other 
boot. "Shoot it from two or three directions and it looks 
like a regular town on fire. Gee I'm tired. This refugee 
business is hell all right. Man sure sees some awful things 
in this country." In two minutes he was snoring. 23 

Such a dialogue utilization of the vignette was com- 
pletely consistent. Hemingway employed several of the in 
our time sketches for that kind of exercise in capturing a 
particular voice. The two Mons vignettes, "chapter 4" and 
"chapter 5," were drawn directly from post-war conversa- 
tions with his friend Dorman-Smith, the professional Eng- 
lish soldier whom he had first met in Milan in November, 
1918. The clipped, upper-class diction of Sandhurst was 
unmistakable and deliberate. A similar emphasis on a spe- 
cific idiom occurred in "chapter 2." Hemingway clearly 
intended the idiom of its narrator to be a vulgar, relatively 
unliterate one. The vocabulary is as limited as that of an 
English regular army officer, but in an entirely different 
way. It is the colloquial one of an American city dweller. 
The language has the alternating vagueness and clarity of 
urban, lower-class speech. The matador "got" the horn 
through his sword hand; he holds one hand "tight" against 
the "place"; badly injured, the matador is said to get up 
"like crazy drunk," and tries to "slug" the men. The bull- 
fighter is a "kid." The narrator's language is functionally 
ungrammatical; the bullfighter "couldn't hardly" lift his 
arm. In the last line of the Little Review version the narrator 
says that "the crowd come down the barrera into the bull 
ring." One of the first fluent interpreters of bullfighting 
whom Hemingway encountered in Spain, in fact, was just 
such an American as the idiom of "chapter 2" characterized. 
He sat next to Hemingway and Mike Strater all afternoon, 

PARIS 239 

and they listened to him again that night in a little Madrid 
restaurant. Hemingway described him and his idiom in a 
1923 article for the Star Weekly. 24 ^ 

Most of the vignettes, however, were primarily con- 
cerned with the compositional reproduction of scene and 
emotion. The voice of the narrator was generally more 
anonymous than in such sketches as the Mons paragraphs 
and "chapter 2" and "chapter 6." A more characteristic 
treatment, in which Hemingway practiced declarative nar- 
ration and ironic omission of comment, occurred in "chapter 
17." The scene was an American version of the execution 
of the Greek ministers. Unlike the source of "chapter 6," 
it had been closely observed by Hemingway in Kansas City 
five years earlier. Sam Cardinella was hung in 1918 in the 
old Jackson County jail at the corner of Missouri Avenue 
and Oak Street. Hemingway's description of the jail and 
its execution routine was scrupulously accurate. Like the 
vignette of the Greek firing squad, this one has a bleak aura 
of human triviality which is as reminiscent of Goya as the 
violent scenes themselves. The anti-clerical quality is par- 
ticularly noticeable; Goya's Spanish priests seldom have less 
dignity than the American priest whom Hemingway de- 
flates with the single verb, "skipped." When he revised the 
vignette in 1924 for In Our Time, Hemingway inserted 
another ironic, Goya-like detail. To the next to the last 
sentence, after "chair," he added the sardonic phrase, "hold- 
ing up a little crucifix." 

"Chapter 18," the last vignette of in our time, provides 
a different sequence of manuscript drafts. In "chapter 3" 
the chronology of revision had led in a normal way from 
Adrianople cable to magazine publication to book form. 
Here the process was reversed. In September, 1923, several 
months after he had completed the manuscript of in our 
time, Hemingway was back in Toronto, hard pushed to 
manufacture feature material for the Star Weekly. His first 


articles, quite naturally, drew heavily upon the expatriate 
experience he had so recently, and regretfully, left. One of 
the earliest of these articles, published in Toronto on Sep- 
tember 15, 1923, was a long account of European royalty, 
partially derived, once again, from conversations in Paris 
with Shorty, the American movie cameraman. 25 

In these paragraphs of 1923 journalism Hemingway did 
little more than reproduce with accuracy and wit the 
actual conversation in Paris between himself and the Amer- 
ican cameraman. A good feature writer, he was content to 
exploit the easy possibilities of a situation which was tail- 
ored for Sunday supplement treatment. His only deliberate 
manipulation of the structure, aside from the vaudeville-like 
exchanges, was to emphasize the heavy Americanisms of 
Shorty and the lugubrious, basically un-British quality of 
Greek royalty. Both these elements would be well received 
in the provincial atmosphere of Toronto; after all, he was 
back at the old stand, expressing once again "the Canadian 
point of view." The vignette, on the other hand, had been 
a careful, frugal treatment which shaped the situation to- 
ward a specific effect. 

The king was working in the garden. He seemed very 
glad to see me. We walked through the garden. This is the 
queen, he said. She was clipping a rose bush. Oh how do 
you do, she said. We sat down at a table under a big tree 
and the king ordered whiskey and soda. We have good 
whiskey anyway, he said. The revolutionary committee, he 
told me, would not allow him to go outside the palace 
grounds. Plastiras is a very good man I believe, he said, but 
frightfully difficult. I think he did right though shooting 
those chaps. If Kerensky had shot a few men things might 
have been altogether different. Of course the great thing in 
this sort of an affair is not to be shot oneself! 

It was very jolly. We talked for a long time. Like all 
Greeks he wanted to go to America. 

PARIS 241 

Hemingway's creative concern was with George. This 
was the final vignette; it would become the epilogue of 
In Our Time. Its statement, in terms of the previous seven- 
teen sketches, was explicit. Here, in a garden in Athens, 
was the ultimate irony of a contemporary experience. The 
leader of an ancient nation, whose people had recently 
fought and lost a painful, costly war, out of which had 
come the catastrophic Thracian refugee processions, was 
discovered to be an amiable, inept facsimile of an English 
gentleman. George did not equate with the inherited, ac- 
cepted concepts of divine leadership and the romantic prin- 
ciples of monarchial glory. George equated with any Greek 
short order cook in Oak Park or Kansas City or Chicago. 

The final vignette, controlled and professional, was an 
appropriate climax to this thin book which Edmund Wilson 
would soon call "the soundest" written by an American 
about the war. 26 Small wonder that Hemingway was not 
jubilant about his forthcoming return to Canada. He was 
abruptly halting his literary career at the moment of igni- 
tion, exchanging the stimulating world of Europe for one 
about which he had no illusions; he knew Toronto too well, 
in several variations. Such a detour as this, however, could 
be only momentary. He had acquired too much momentum 
both from his European newspaper work and from his 
progress and position as a young writer. His departure from 
Europe on August 17, 1923 was neither the end of one 
period nor the beginning of a new one. It was no more than 
a temporary suspension of the narrative. 

The publication of Three Stories & Ten Poems, and the 
assurance that in our time would soon appear, were the 
virtual epitaph on his apprenticeship. Now there remained 
only the actual separation from journalism. Toronto was 
the ideal scene for such a separation. 



"Hemingway seems very much not to 
have liked Canada." 


Scrutinized dispassionately, with the hindsight of thirty 
years, Hemingway's final Toronto period in the autumn of 
1923 has all the elements of swiftly paced catastrophe. Its 
chronology and actors provide the outline of a vivid melo- 
drama. All the components were present: hero, villain, 
dilemma and choice, suspense, theme, and explosive resolu- 
tion. The four months' narrative had a neat unity of time 
and place. There was even off-stage comic relief in the 
person of Ezra Pound, who sent Hemingway mocking 
letters from Paris, derisively addressed to "Tomato, Can." 

Hemingway talked seriously, in fact, of using the experi- 
ence as fiction. He discussed on several occasions the possi- 
bilities of a satiric novel to be called The Son-in-Laiv. Its 
principal character was to have been Harry C. Hindmarsh, 
the assistant managing editor of the Daily Star. Ultimately, 
however, Hemingway rejected the scenario. He explained 
to a Toronto colleague, after reflection, that a novelist 
should not write a book whose main character was someone 
he detested; the emotion distorted your perspective, Hem- 
ingway explained. 

If Hemingway's transformation from journalist to writer 
still required confirmation, this episode of the abandoned 


novel about Harry Hindmarsh may be regarded as pro- 
nouncing it complete. The principle Hemingway enunci- 
ated, and by virtue of which Hindmarsh was spared a 
savage fictional portrait, may have been false or question- 
able; the fact that Hemingway was assessing prospective 
material in such terms was the significant element. His ap- 
prenticeship was over. Journalism had been the most im- 
portant single factor, supplemented by travel, the shocks 
of war and peace, and personal and literary associations, 
but by September, 1923, its utility was ended. Hemingway's 
firm and expanding psychology as a writer indicated that 
an extension of journalism, particularly under the incessant 
pressures of a city room schedule, could result only in chaos 
and rebellion. The whole episode had a classic finality of 

The decision to return to Canada for two years, to be 
sure, was in many ways a sound one. Occasioned by his 
wife's pregnancy and the necessity of providing their child 
with a stable infancy, it was the sort of behavior which 
would be taken for granted in the sober world of, say, Oak 
Park. It was also, on the other hand, a notable gesture of 
private fortitude in a twenty-four-year-old writer who had 
been living with pleasure and professional profit in a milieu 
where such decisions are almost unique. Given this kind of 
mature responsibility on Hemingway's part, the plan might 
conceivably have worked, despite inevitable personal stress 
and possible artistic inhibition, had all the surrounding fac- 
tors been ideal. The mechanism of the Toronto drama, 
however, contained only the most hostile elements. 

At first there was a falsely benign aura to the enterprise. 
It was, after all, a kind of homecoming. Some of Heming- 
way's distaste was removed by the warmth with which 
Gregory Clark, the Star Weekly's feature editor, greeted 
him, and by the affection which developed between the 
Clarks and Mrs. Hemingway. Clark noticed that Heming- 


way spoke easily and familiarly, without bravado, of Ger- 
trude Stein, and Pound, and James Joyce. In his reminis- 
cence there was none of the swagger that might have been 
legitimately expected. Clark felt easier about the elaborate 
build-up he had given down at the Star in preparation for 
the prodigal's return. 

The Star, as always, had had a large turnover. Heming- 
way had to be introduced to most of the staff. Clark's pref- 
atory enthusiasm, however, had been substantiated by 
Hemingway's own achievement as a correspondent. They 
had all read his European dispatches, particularly those from 
the Near East. He came back to Toronto as a veteran re- 
porter of some stature. He now belonged to John Bone and 
the Daily Star, on the other hand, rather than to Cranston 
and the more leisurely, semi-literary Star Weekly with which 
he had been primarily associated in 1920 and 1921. Al- 
though Cranston had reservations about the American's 
temperamental capacity to adjust to the demands of a daily 
paper, he was pleased with Hemingway's success. It was a 
good job, one hundred and twenty-five dollars a week and, 
it was assumed, a permanent assignment interviewing local 
and visiting celebrities. Soon, however, like the rest of the 
Star's staff, Cranston became aware that Hemingway was 
receiving the celebrated Hindmarsh treatment. An impor- 
tant agent in the final dissolution of Hemingway as a jour- 
nalist had appeared. 

Harry Comfort Hindmarsh remains today a bleak and 
ambiguous individual. It is no exaggeration to say that he 
is one of the half dozen most important men in North 
American journalism. His papers have no particular place 
in the consciousness of the American public, although most 
American newspapermen are familiar with both the Daily 
Star and the Star Weekly, but they dominate the highly 
competitive Canadian newspaper scene. Hindmarsh, an im- 
portant contributor to the emergence of this Toronto 


empire, has for forty years puzzled and enraged his col- 
leagues and employees. Today, as president of The Toronto 
Star Limited, he is the object of vast gossip and calumny, 
and occasional deep loyalty. Both he and the Star are the 
targets of continuous published and private speculation. 2 

In September, 1923, when Hemingway returned to 
Toronto, Hindmarsh, after a decade with the Star, was its 
assistant managing editor. He had succeeded Cranston 
when the latter became editor of the Star Weekly. Although 
he was married to the publisher's daughter hence the title 
of Hemingway's abortive novel Hindmarsh himself was 
harassed by his own immediate superior, John Bone. Hind- 
marsh was also attempting the difficult job of simultan- 
eously boosting circulation and ridding the Daily Star of 
the raffish young men whose talents frequently made the 
circulation possible. He has lived to see a time when he 
need hire none but sober university graduates like himself. 
Shortly after World War II he declared with relish: "The 
cult of the prima donna [in journalism] is dead." 3 

In 1923, however, the cult was very much alive, both in 
Toronto and throughout the American newspaper world. 
Hindmarsh concluded automatically that Hemingway, fresh 
from the undisciplined routine of overseas work, was a 
member of that school. Between September 10, 1923, when 
he went on the Star's payroll, and September 25, Heming- 
way was not assigned a single story of sufficient importance 
to rate the paper's lavishly given by-line. He was sent to 
the city hall with vague instructions to see what was going 
on. He covered concerts at Massey Hall, and he was sum- 
moned from bed at four in the morning to cover one-alarm 
fires. The routine was a stereotype with a certain kind of 
newspaper executive of the period; it is preserved in the 
anachronistic behavior of Hollywood's city editors. Few 
Star reporters of any duration escaped it. Almost all of 
them have memories of front-page glory and sudden descent 


to the woman's page. Hemingway, however, didn't even 
have the consolation of being removed from journalistic 
privilege; he began at the bottom. His degradation was ob- 
served with resentment by another young reporter. 

Morley Callaghan, several years younger than Heming- 
way, was in 1923 a part-time member of the Star's editorial 
staff. He was just completing his undergraduate work at the 
University of Toronto, and beginning to write the short 
stories which were to make him so significant a literary 
force in the 1920's and 1930's. Like so many young men of 
talent in Toronto, he had almost necessarily gravitated to- 
ward the Star Weekly. One of the legends to which he 
responded most actively was the picture Greg Clark and 
Jimmy Cowan and Frise, the cartoonist, had created for 
him that summer of their friend Hemingway. Callaghan's 
first glimpse of Hemingway did not increase his own pre- 
carious adjustment to the perverse world of Hindmarsh's 
city room. 

"One morning that fall," Callaghan recalled in 1952, "I 
went over to check the assignment book." Callaghan, an 
articulate man, has a precise and ready memory. "I looked 
down the list and I saw Hemingway's name, and then his 
name again, and finally, down at the bottom, I saw it a third 
time." The young Canadian, who thought of Hemingway 
as one whose literary career had been firmly launched, was 
naturally curious about what kinds of assignments he was 
being given, and why he should receive so many of them. 
He was appalled at what he saw. "They were all piddling," 
Callaghan remembered, "just junk assignments." At this 
moment Callaghan first saw Hemingway, whom he rec- 
ognized from Jimmy Cowan's description. Hemingway 
walked over and studied the book himself. "Jesus Christ," 
he muttered. 

Callaghan and Hemingway, inevitably, became close 
friends that autumn. Their friendship survived into the late 


1920's, when Callaghan moved to Paris for a time; finally 
it dissolved in the meaningless acrimony of New York liter- 
ary gossip. Callaghan never concealed his admiration for 
certain aspects of Hemingway's work, nor did he ever be- 
little his own early debt to the American. "I'll always be 
grateful to Hemingway," said Callaghan, thirty years after 
that first meeting in the Toronto city room, "because at a 
time when I needed encouragement he told me I was going 
to be a great writer." 4 

In the fall of 1923 Callaghan's serious writing had scarcely 
incubated. Hemingway, a published writer and the friend 
of legendary Paris figures, was an important experience for 
him. Their relationship in Toronto verifies from another 
direction the solidity of Hemingway's projection of him- 
self at this time as a writer rather than a newspaper man. 
Callaghan was astonished to discover later, in Paris, that he 
and Hemingway were virtually contemporaries. The lat- 
ter's air of maturity in Toronto came from more than his 
involvement in the war, or the fact that he was married. 
It stemmed directly from his professional concept of writ- 
ing as an intensely worthy craft. His deep seriousness 
about writing endowed Hemingway with adulthood and 
sobriety. His affinity for Callaghan was a symptom of this. 
There were other reporters whom Hemingway might have 
cultivated with more profit to himself. Callaghan was not 
only an obscure member of the staff, he was also, in his 
own memory of the period, "very, very green." Heming- 
way, however, was drawn instinctively to his transparent 
intensity about writing. 

The editorial staff as a whole was literate and intelligent; 
many of them had the conventional newspaperman's ambi- 
tions to write fiction. None of them had the rigidity of 
purpose which Hemingway and Callaghan shared. It is 
significant that when Gregory Clark tried to sort out his 
memories of this period, in 1950, he persistently confused 


Callaghan with Hemingway, and vice versa. The average 
would-be writer on the Star, as on most newspapers, 
rarely looked beyond the Saturday Evening Post, and sel- 
dom that high. They were more impressed, indeed, by 
Hemingway's success as a foreign correspondent than by 
the beginnings of his literary career; Callaghan thought of 
him as a writer who was temporarily and unfortunately a 
reporter. The two had in common their unsolemn dedica- 
tion to art. 

Hemingway urged Callaghan to commit himself totally 
to serious writing. Callaghan remembered the American as 
being "bishop-like" in his severity and urgency. They read 
each other's work and talked about "all other living 
writers/' and in particular of Sherwood Anderson, whom 
Callaghan admired immensely. Callaghan was shown the 
proofs of in our time when they arrived from Paris. Thus 
Hemingway created the illusion of a transplanted Latin 
Quarter, introducing an air of deep resolve into the limited 
world of the Toronto arts. He was a figure of substance 
to the young reporters of his own age. Once or twice they 
feted him in their fraternity house at the university. Hem- 
ingway's comment after one of these salons indicated again 
the kind of milieu with which he had enveloped himself. 
"They made me feel like Anatole France," he told a 

Hemingway's confidante on that occasion was Mary 
Lowry, an intelligent, witty Canadian who was emancipat- 
ing herself from much the same genteel background Hem- 
ingway had known in Oak Park. Later she published a 
number of deftly written short stories and established her- 
self as a successful free lance. In 1923, however, she was 
merely another rebellious Star reporter, thoroughly famil- 
iar with the Hindmarsh treatment. Her small office became 
a refuge for Hemingway. "He would storm in there," she 
said many years later, "and rave and rant about that so and 


so." 5 She found him an engaging fellow sufferer, and even 
in his frustration an amiable and entertaining prisoner. 
"Hemingway," she remembered, "was always lots of fun." 
With several others from the paper they used to gather 
after work or between assignments at Child's for coffee, or 
at Angelo's, where chianti was served in the thick china 
cups of a dry town. 

Prohibition and its indignities were but another of the 
elements which menaced Hemingway's plan to remain in 
journalism for an additional two years. Toronto was a cari- 
cature of puritanism, notorious for its blue laws and its 
Sabbath solemnity. Hemingway's response to such personal 
restrictions was characteristic of Americans who had lived 
abroad. He and Mary Lowry were sent to cover a conclave 
of Toronto clergymen discussing the necessity for legal 
censorship of the movies. As an attitude this was for Hem- 
ingway merely a variation of prohibition. He slouched 
down in his chair, feet up on the bench in front of him, 
grumbling and cursing. "Goddamn," he told the girl loudly, 
"I hate refinement." 

Had he deliberately sought an area of organized refine- 
ment, Hemingway could not have selected a better locale 
than Toronto. Even the countryside repelled him. His first 
substantial assignment, on September 24, took him to the 
mining towns west of Toronto. The landscape was not very 
different from what he had seen, unappalled, in the Ruhr 
that spring. He was as temporarily unreasonable as most 
reluctant repatriates. "Driving through it," he wrote for 
the Daily Star, "was like going through some desolate early 
illustration of Pilgrim's Progress." 6 He might have used the 
same metaphor to describe the sequence of six-day working 
weeks he was spending in the desolate routine of Toronto 
journalism. This was a vocational morass he had been pre- 
viously spared. The Toronto Daily Star was as different 
from the Kansas City Star as is the New York Journal 


American different from the Herald Tribune or the late 
Boston Transcript. 


In 1923, under the energetic leadership of Hindmarsh's 
father-in-law, the late Joseph E. Atkinson, 7 the Star was 
emerging as the colossus of Canadian journalism. Sensational 
headlines, red type, comic strips, eyewitness and flamboyant 
reportage, basic English, and many photographs were the 
fundamental tools. In the bible-belt atmosphere of southern 
Ontario the Star's management also uncovered in religion 
an appeal which Hearst, for example, though he frequently 
attempted it, was never able to exploit fully in the United 
States. Atkinson's nickname in the trade was an indication 
of the pious hypocrisy his contemporaries felt they detected 
in the contradictory components of his papers. They called 
him Holy Joe. 8 

There was no style book on the Star, and no editor with 
the scrupulous regard for prose that had distinguished Pete 
Wellington. Both Hindmarsh and the managing editor, John 
Bone, were hard-working editors with genuine talents for 
discovering news and merchandising it profitably, but there 
was no exchange department here, nor was there the cama- 
raderie of a group of young reporters determined to write 
fiction. The staff was intelligent, cynical, and wholly inse- 
cure. The paper was racked by alternate spasms of free 
spending and hangovers of harsh economy. It was a pro- 
vincial paper run in a big-town way. On the whole it ex- 
hibited most of the flaws and few of the virtues of both 
categories. Veteran Toronto newsmen recall the existence 
of only one prose directive in the Star's city room. On the 
bulletin board was an admonishment to "Put a Punch in 
Every Paragraph." Beyond this the Star did not venture in 
matters of rhetoric. 

Hemingway's vocational reaction to this atmosphere was 


a natural one. He manufactured, by and large, the kind of 
material that was required. His first story was published on 
September 15, by the Star Weekly* \ Cranston bought it to 
tide Hemingway over until he went on the Daily Star pay- 
roll. The article established the pattern of much of the work 
he would do during the next three and a half months. In it 
he exploited the sort of gossip a working newspaperman 
acquires almost unconsciously. Assessing his audience with 
cynical shrewdness, Hemingway prepared a Sunday supple- 
ment treatment of contemporary European royalty. It was 
written with a minimum of organization and re-drafting; 
Hemingway's reservoir of intimate anecdote, and the en- 
gaging background of personal reminiscence, provided read- 
ability and movement. 

Hemingway's work continued to demonstrate this expert, 
angry facility. Late in October he managed to get himself 
transferred to the Star Weekly staff, removing himself to 
a degree from Hindmarsh's tyranny. 10 He was unquestion- 
ably one of the magazine's principal attractions. 11 He shared 
the featured columns with Fred Griffin and Gregory Clark. 
Occasionally, as in two excellent installments on bullfight- 
ing, Hemingway laid aside his facility and attempted to 
transcribe the kind of emotion and narrative he had already 
achieved in the stories and vignettes of his two Paris vol- 
umes. 12 In the second of these Spanish articles, indeed, he 
spilled out his restless longing for a reprieve from Toronto 
and from journalism. "That was just three months ago," he 
wrote bitterly, after a buoyant description of the Pamplona 
fiesta. "It seems in a different century now, working in an 
office. . . . But it is only fourteen days by water to Spain 
and there is no need for a castle. There is always that room 
at 5 Calle de Eslava " 

For the moment, however, he could only sublimate his 
distress with the dubious release of Star Weekly freedom as 
opposed to Daily Star oppression. He turned frequently to 


his European memories, for stories about continental hunt- 
ing, fishing, and skiing. 13 His nostalgia even permitted him 
to make a new assessment of his Black Forest experience of 
two summers before. A Toronto exile had cleansed the 
original dispatches of their querulous prejudice; to that 
extent the Canadian banishment was a purge. 

... we fished all through the Black Forest. With rucksacks 
and fly-rods, we hiked across country, sticking to the high 
ridges and the rolling crests of the hills, sometimes through 
deep pine timber, sometimes coming out into a clearing and 
farmyards and again going for miles without seeing a soul 
except occasional wild looking berry pickers. We never 
knew where we were. But we were never lost because at 
any time we could cut down from the high country into 
a valley and know we could hit a stream. Sooner or later 
every stream flowed into a river and a river meant a 
town. . . . We cut across the high, bare country, dipping 
down into valleys and walking through the woods, cool 
and dim as a cathedral on the August hot day. 14 

There were paragraphs as effective as these in almost all 
the material he wrote in Toronto during the last months of 
1923. Hemingway, after all, was now a relatively finished 
writer; inevitably his journalism occasionally displayed 
thoughtful or instinctive craft. These were isolated para- 
graphs, however, frequently buried in a soggy, journeyman 
treatment. The general tone of his articles became increas- 
ingly pedestrian. By early November he was writing two 
long articles for almost every issue of the Star Weekly. 
"Pretty soon," he told another reporter bitterly, "Fll be 
writing the whole damn magazine." It even became neces- 
sary to mask part of his productivity behind the decent 
cloak of a pseudonym; the most flagrant of his hack work 


began to appear under the by-line of John Hadley. 15 Fre- 
quently, whether they were signed with his own or Had- 
ley's name, his stories were little more than extensions of 
news items briefly used by the Daily Star or turned over 
to the Star Weekly by the city desk for feature treatment. 
Hemingway-Hadley wrote at length of the possibilities of 
flood in the Great Lakes, of General Wolfe's diaries, of an 
experiment for introducing iodine into the Toronto reser- 
voirs, and of the impregnability of Ontario bank vaults. 18 

It was sorry material on which to waste the time that 
even such synthetic stories required. It was impossible for 
him to turn to his own work. "I write slowly," he told 
Ernest Walsh in 1925, "and with a great deal of difficulty 
and my head has to be clear to do it. While I write the 
stuff I have to live it in my head/' 17 There wasn't room in 
his head for cops and robbers stories, a six-day week, and 
serious writing. Even to his journalism he brought stand- 
ards that were personally exacting. "Don't talk about it 
before you write it," he warned Mary Lowry once, as they 
walked back to the Star after a provocative interview with 
the survivors of a Japanese earthquake. "You mustn't talk 
about it," Hemingway insisted. "You'll spoil it." 18 

Sometimes, of course, Hemingway found material to 
which he responded. On November 24 he printed in the 
Star Weekly, without a by-line, a highly personal statement 
on contemporary literature. 19 The article, whose sharp 
brevity was more characteristic of his fiction than of his 
usually wordy stories for Cranston, was occasioned by the 
award of the Nobel Prize to William Butler Yeats. The 
point of view was forceful and informed, written in the 
sardonic idiom with which he has customarily delivered his 
literary opinions; it would have been more suitably placed 
in the columns of Poetry or the Little Review. "William 
Butler Yeats has written, with the exception of a few poems 


by Ezra Pound, the very finest poetry of our rime. This 
is a statement that will be instantly challenged by the ad- 
mirers of Alfred Noyes, John Masefield, Bliss Carman, and 
Robert Service. Let them read what they like. There is 
little use in attempting to convert a lover of coca-cola to 
vintage champagne." 20 

By mid-November Hemingway had decided to go back 
to Europe with the new year. Stimulated by his decision, 
and acting upon Cranston's friendly agreement to help 
finance the trip through the purchase of extra Star Weekly 
stories, Hemingway poured out a torrent of copy so large 
that the magazine was still using his material after he had 
left Toronto. He wrote a hasty but provocative description 
of a confidence man selling worthless European currency to 
hungry vagrants, 21 and he assembled an exhaustive chronicle 
of anecdote about European night life. 22 A long story pub- 
lished on December 22 was slickly tailored for the Christ- 
mas season. 23 Its three separate episodes, each of them 
illustrating the holiday as celebrated in Switzerland, Italy, 
and Paris, indicated once again that he was instinctively 
working in fiction patterns. The material of these vignettes 
was generally mawkish and careless, but the sketches them- 
selves were presented in terms of situation and dialogue, 
with a well-paced narrative and a certain amount of climax 
and resolution. On the whole, however, Hemingway dis- 
played himself to better immediate advantage in less per- 
sonal material, in articles about Toronto bookies, legendary 
New Year's Eves, the world's great imposters, and mem- 
ories of Chicago. 24 The final fruit of the Toronto misadven- 
ture was published on January 19, 1924, a derisive sneer in 
which Hemingway could no longer suppress his contempt 
for the New World and his jubilation about his European 
prospects. In a trolley two girls had giggled about his felt 


"Say," said a gentleman in a cap, who had been observing 
me truculently for some blocks, "what do you mean getting 
fresh with a couple of girls?" 

"I'm very sorry, sir, but I cannot detain you longer." I 
bowed. "But I must leave the street car here. I have an ap- 
pointment with the new mayor." 

"For two bits I'd give you a sock on the jaw," observed 
the gentleman in the cap. 

"I couldn't think of it for a moment," I said. "My dear 
fellow, it would be quite impossible. I could not think of 
accepting a piece of hosiery from a chance acquaintance, 
no matter how pleasant." 

I bowed again and descended from the car. The gentle- 
man in the cap was comforting the two young ladies. 

"I'd have poked him a minute," said the gentleman. 

"He had no right to talk to a decent working girl like 
that," sobbed one of the girls. 

"I'd have poked him," comforted the gentleman in the 
cap. 25 

The friction between Hemingway and the assistant man- 
aging editor had not been dissolved by the former's trans- 
ference to the staff of the Star Weekly. Cranston's men 
were always at the disposal of Hindmarsh, either for regular 
city desk assignments or for special chores. Hemingway's 
attitude toward the Daily Star editor had been openly hos- 
tile since early October. At that time Hindmarsh sent him 
to New York to cover the arrival of Lloyd George, despite 
the young American's plea that his wife would almost cer- 
tainly be delivered in Toronto during those few days. 26 

One of Hemingway's colleagues remembered that the 
latter's single comment, on another occasion, when Hind- 
marsh ordered him to a municipal park to get a nature story, 


had been: "Let's go back to the office and beat the hell out 
of Hindmarsh." The circumstances of Hemingway's ulti- 
mate resignation from the Star are obscure, clouded by 
conflicting testimony and the reticence that has often 
muzzled witnesses to many such episodes on the paper. 
Hemingway, however, was never reticent about the Star. 
His own version of the final break, written years later in 
a letter to Cranston at a time when the retired editor was 
preparing a volume of reminiscences was precise and psy- 
chologically plausible. 

Hemingway told Cranston in 1951 that he had been 
assigned to do an interview with Count Aponyi, the Hun- 
garian diplomat. The Hungarian gave Hemingway a num- 
ber of official documents which would clarify his mission, 
and "extracted a promise that they would be returned later 
in the day." Hemingway sent the papers to Hindmarsh, 
with a note requesting him to put the papers in the office 
safe until he could take them back to the Count. Hindmarsh, 
according to Hemingway, read the note and threw the 
documents in the wastebasket. Later that day, in the normal 
routine of office-cleaning procedure, they were burned in 
the furnace. Hemingway resigned as soon as he learned of 
the destruction of the papers. 

Even the bookkeeping records of the Star do not clarify 
the episode. They merely indicate that Hemingway resigned 
some time in December and drew his final pay on the last 
day of the month. It was an explosive separation; around 
it there developed extravagant details that have made it one 
of the legendary city room tales. Many years later Heming- 
way's venom toward Hindmarsh was sufficiently alive so 
that he responded aggressively to a Toronto Newspaper 
Guild plea for contributions with which to organize the 
Star. He sent the Guild a check for one hundred dollars, 
"to beat Hindmarsh." 27 After four pages of eloquent com- 
ment on his former editor, he changed his mind. "On sec- 


ond thought," Hemingway wrote, "I'm making it $200. I 
welcome the opportunity to take a swing at that . . . Hind- 

In January, 1924, Hemingway and his small family left 
Toronto, their proposed two years in Canada reduced to 
four months. Hemingway never went back, although one 
of the ingredients of his Toronto legend is that he appeared 
triumphantly in person in the Star city room to distribute 
copies of his first novel. He did continue to write Greg 
Clark and Morley Callaghan. Once in a mood of depression 
years later he speculated to Clark about a fishing trip to 
northern Ontario, where he felt one could escape entirely 
from society. He remembered Cranston with affection, and 
when the latter took his family abroad in 1925 it was Hem- 
ingway who guided them around Paris. "I never enjoyed 
myself so much," he told Cranston early in 1951, "as work- 
ing under you and with Greg Clark and Jimmy Frise. It 
was why I was sad to quit newspaper work. Working under 
Hindmarsh was like being in the German army with a poor 
commander." He saw a good deal of Morley Callaghan 
during the next few years in Paris, but on the whole 
Toronto held for him the bitter memories which equate 
with any suspension of forward movement. 

That the period was no more than a suspension had been 
made clear by the occasional real quality of his journalism 
that fall, as well as by the genuine professional aura which 
such interested young writers as Callaghan, Mary Lowry, 
and Jimmy Cowan detected in him. Within these final ex- 
ercises of his literary apprenticeship are the tangible evi- 
dences of his five years of training. He had perfected the 
narrative talent which would be a characteristic of all his 
fiction, and which has enabled him to reach more varieties 
of readers than any other serious writer of his generation. 
His instinct for narrative had always been a strong one. 
Journalism altered the instinct from gift to craft. The kind 


of newspaper writing he did between 1920 and 1923, and 
the basic lessons he received in Kansas City in 1917 and 
1918, required that he tell stories rather than report events. 
The rather special pattern of Hemingway's employers 
had also permitted and encouraged the development of such 
an important instrument of his fiction as dialogue. The con- 
ventional inhibitions of spot news reporting, with its in- 
sistence on the merely factual and expository, were replaced 
for Hemingway by a medium which facilitated his training 
as a fictionalist through its appetite for human interest 
material. Even in the hasty structures of his 1923 journalism 
Hemingway erupted into passages of vivid, careful speech 
which confirmed his obligation to the Star Weekly's flexi- 

He was an old man, with a face like a leather water bottle. 

"Well, Papa, no fish today," I said. 

"Not for you," he said solemnly. 

"Why not for me? For you, maybe?" I said. 

"Oh, yes," he said, not smiling. "For me trout always. 
Not for you. You don't know how to fish with worms." 
And spat into the stream. 

"You're so rich you know everything. You are probably 
a rich man from your knowledge of fishworms," I said. 28 

The necessity to communicate people rather than events, 
and the stylistic freedom both the Star Weekly and the 
Daily Star extended to their reporters, enabled Hemingway 
to exercise the lucid exposition which would in three years 
vivify The Sun Also Rises. His coverage of the Lloyd 
George assignment in October, 1923, was an uneven one, 
made more exasperating than usual by the amount of copy 
that was required of him and by his separation from his 
wife during the last weeks of her pregnancy. The highly 
personal diction of his serious writing, nevertheless, could 


be practiced without reprimand for such a paper. Heming- 
way attempted a definition of the English politician's ora- 
tory. "It is his wonderful voice," he wrote, "combined with 
his Gaelic gift of prophecy that strikes one. When he talks, 
you feel he is a prophet, and prophets have a way of their 
own. He talks much as Peter the Hermit must have talked 
about the crusades." 29 The sharply etched lines of portrai- 
ture were equal testimony to Hemingway's debt to the 
freedoms of Star journalism. "With his silvery hair and 
keen face," Hemingway explained in another Lloyd George 
dispatch, "he looked in the big cape like some retired 
medieval fencing master." 30 

Journalism had also encouraged, in this same area, Hem- 
ingway's persistent and usually legitimate air of vast knowl- 
edgeability. It was part of a newspaperman's necessity for 
and opportunities of being on the inside of a situation. Au- 
thenticity is above all a reporter's virtue. Journalism en- 
couraged Hemingway to throw himself responsively into 
whatever atmosphere he was exploring. It required him to 
know just a shade more than the layman about any given 
situation. An inevitable extension of this vocational knowl- 
edgeability, of course, was a sardonic recognition of human 
frailty and a skepticism about large truths. Hemingway's 
sense of humor had always been a highly developed one. 
The hearty nature of his adolescent burlesque was en- 
couraged by the Star Weekly; as the scope of his journalism 
extended into politics and diplomacy, his wit became more 
subtle and ironic. 

"Although Lloyd George is universally popular with 
Americans," Hemingway wrote characteristically on Oc- 
tober 8, 1923, just before he finished that particular assign- 
ment, "some of them seem just a bit confused as to who 
he is. One New Yorker said to The Star: 1 guess there 
wasn't anybody else could take the helm the way he did. 
I have just finished reading his book, Men Like 


guess things would be pretty good all right if we had that 
Utopia, eh? 7 " 31 In December, 1923, writing about Euro- 
pean night life, Hemingway remembered a conversation at 
Florence's in Paris, where the proprietress and staff were 
American Negroes. 

"Miss Flawnce she ain't a niggah no mo. No suh. She 
done tell customahs mammy's an Indian lady fum Canada," 
a waiter explained. "Ah'm luhnin' to talk that English way, 
too. Ah'm goin' tuh tell people my mammy's an Indian lady 
f uhm Noble Scotia. Yes, suh. We'll all be Indiums this tahm 
nex' yeah. Yes, suh." 32 

Of all the tangible professional profits that came to Hem- 
ingway through his apprenticeship in newspaper work, this 
knowledgeability and its sardonic derivation of wit were 
the most immediately apparent. His style matured to a 
degree in the discipline of cabelese; after his association 
with Gertrude Stein he began to introduce the harsh, de- 
clarative structure of his mature prose into his feature 
material. On the whole, however, his newspaper rhetoric 
could seldom be more economical than was appropriate to 
a reporter who was usually paid by the word. The inter- 
ludes of buoyant humor and ironic wit were basic to his 
success as a correspondent; he exercised them constantly. 
In the months immediately after his abandonment of news- 
paper work, in fact, Hemingway was inclined to think of 
himself at least in part as a humorist. 

This attitude was stimulated by his friendship with 
Donald Ogden Stewart, whom he had first met in Europe 
in 1923, and of whom he saw a great deal in 1924 and 
1925. He was much impressed by the satirist's work and 
its success and particularly by Mr. and Mrs. Haddocks 
Abroad. One of the last pieces of journalism Hemingway 
attempted at this time, indeed, was a humorous account of 


bullfighting which Stewart rejected in 1924 for Vanity Fair. 
Hemingway thought of "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot" as a funny 
story, and as late as July, 1925, when he was working on 
the first draft of The Sun Also Rises, he regarded that 
manuscript as in part a humorous one. In the fall of 1925, 
as an interlude between drafts of the novel, Hemingway 
wrote the satiric The Torrents of Spring. Here, in the 
parody and irony of literary denunciation, Hemingway dis- 
played among other qualities the fluency and ease of news- 
paper training. The book was written, its author claimed, 
in ten days. To the degree that it was hasty and, according 
to some versions, written solely to make money, it derived 
directly from his journalism. It was also, however, a very 
funny book, which it was meant to be, and occasionally a 
very thoughtful book, professionally, which it was also 
meant to be; in the sense that it was a blend of haste and 
talent, The Torrents of Spring was his journalistic epitaph. 
Between late 1925, however, when he wrote the satire, 
and January, 1924, when he formally abandoned journal- 
ism, Hemingway wrote a number of excellent short stories 
and the first draft of his novel. Journalism was completely 
thrust aside in its inhibitory sense on January 19, 1924, 
when the Hemingways sailed from New York on the 
Cunard liner Antonia. "Toronto," Hemingway told his 
friends from the Star in ironic farewell, "has taken five 
years off my life." His sense of humor and general maturity 
allowed him to recover rapidly from the disaster of those 
final four months of newspaper work; 1924 would be a 
year of intensive serious writing. His bitterness about the 
Toronto episode, however, never completely healed. Even 
the manner in which Cranston was discarded by the Star 
in 1932 enraged him. "He was as badly treated by the 
Toronto Star" Hemingway declared in 1952, not long be- 
fore the editor's death, "as a man could be and that is almost 
as far as a man can get in being badly treated." 


Journalism had been laborious and frequently exasperat- 
ing. It had also been financial security of a sort, and the 
virtually certain guarantee of an increasingly profitable 
future. It required considerable artistic intensity to abandon 
a vocation in which he was a professional, with good cre- 
dentials, and to turn instead to the insecurity of creative 
writing. He was in 1924 merely one of a number of promis- 
ing young American writers. The compulsion could not be 
resisted. "Ernest," his wife said many years later, "felt if 
we did not get away from that atmosphere quickly, his 
soul, which means his own creative writing, would dry up 
within him." 

Hemingway's debt to journalism was a large one, and he 
always acknowledged it. Unlike many ex-newspapermen, 
however, he neither sentimentalized the profession nor mis- 
understood its essential threat to creative writing. "In news- 
paper work," he explained later, "you have to learn to 
forget every day what happened the day before." He al- 
ways felt a parallel between journalism and war. Each, he 
maintained, is valuable to a writer "up until the point that 
it forcibly begins to destroy your memory." His views on 
this are emphatic. "A writer must leave it before that point. 
But he will always have scars from it." 

The last days in Toronto evaporated in farewell parties, 
the determined drudgery by which he flooded Cranston 
with Star Weekly articles, and a wedding in their apart- 
ment at which Hemingway was best man for Jimmy 
Cowan. Mary Lowry saw them off at the station, and an 
awkward, partly unhappy, occasionally profitable episode 
was over. He had embedded himself in the legend of the 
Toronto newspaper world. Younger men who joined the 
Star were entertained and instructed by the tales of his fury 
and his skill and his ironic wit. The paper became distantly 
vain of his association with it; the morgue accumulated a 
substantial Hemingway folder. In occasional items which 


the Star printed about his books, its reporters sometimes 
referred to him as "a former Torontonian." It must have 
made him laugh. He was no more a former Torontonian, 
Chicagoan, or Kansas Citian, than he was a former news- 
paperman. He had lived in all those places, and in many 
others, and he had been a newspaperman, but he had be- 
come a writer. 


Complete documentation of this study, so much of whose 
material was assembled through correspondence and interview, 
would have required, quite literally, almost one hundred footnotes 
for each twenty-five pages of text. In order to avoid such a repeti- 
tive apparatus, and yet at the same time maintain some decencies 
of responsible documentation, footnotes have been attached, in the 
main, only to those statements whose entire text is readily available 
to the general reader. This has not been a fixed principle; whenever 
a chapter's footnoting seemed to allow a moderate amount of ex- 
tension, without becoming an unwieldy catalogue, I have included 
full citation of this research by correspondence and interview. Un- 
less a specific declaration is made in the footnote, all the corres- 
pondence is unpublished. Hemingway's short stories are in all cases 
cited from their first magazine or book appearance, since the date 
and nature of original publication are generally relevant to the 
theme of apprenticeship. 

266 NOTES 

The following abbreviations are used throughout the notes: 







"Malady of Power" 

Carlos Baker, Hemingway: The 
Writer as Artist (Princeton Uni- 
versity Press, 1952). 

Theodore Brumback, "With Hem- 
ingway before A Farewell to Arms" 
Kansas City Star (December 6, 
1936), 1C, 2C. 

Charles A. Fenton. 

Louis H. Cohn, A Bibliography of 
the Works of Ernest Hemingway 
(Random House, 1931). 

Ernest Hemingway, Death in the 
Afternoon (Scribner's, 1932). 

Toronto Daily Star. 
Ernest Hemingway. 

Indicates that the material was ob- 
tained by interview with the par- 
ticular source on the specified date: 
i.e., J. C. Edgar to CAF, March 15, 
1952 (Int.). 

Ernest Hemingway, "The Malady 
of Power," Esquire, IV (Novem- 
ber, 1935), 31, 198-199. 

"Monologue to the Maestro" Ernest Hemingway, "Monologue to 

the Maestro," Esquire, III (Octo- 
ber, 1935), 21, 174A, 174B. 

"Old Newsman" 


Ernest Hemingway, "Old News- 
man Writes," Esquire, II (Decem- 
ber, 1934), 25-26. 

Toronto Star Weekly. 

Gertrude Stein, Autobiography of 
Alice B. Toklas, (Harcourt, Brace, 

NOTES 267 


Hemingway's high school fiction and journalism have never been 
reprinted or collected. His position, legitimate and understandable 
in a writer of his exacting personal standards, is that juvenilia be- 
longs to the author and his wastebasket. There is a file of the 
Trapeze in the school library. Most private Hemingway collections, 
and many major American libraries, possess those issues of the 
Tabula containing Hemingway's fiction and poetry. I am deeply 
indebted to the following individuals for the patience and gener- 
osity with which they endured and clarified my questions: Miss 
Fannie Biggs; the late Arthur Bobbitt; Colonel Wayne Brandstadt; 
Mrs. Kenneth W. Carr; Mrs. Margaret Adams Charnals; Lewis A. 
Clarahan; Chester B. Clifford; Mrs. Robert Craig Corlett; Richard A. 
Craig; Miss Jean Crawford; Albert W. Dungan; Mrs. Elsbeth Eric; 
John Gehlmann; Mrs. Charles E. Goodell; Mrs. Olga F. Gray; Mrs. 
F. L. Gjesdahl; Paul F. Haase; Tom H. Hildebrand; Mrs. Carl 
Howe, Jr.; Mrs. Carl R. Kesler; Miss Elizabeth G. Kimball; Mrs. 
George C. Kindred; Mrs. J. J. Lowitz; Roswell H. Maveety; Mrs. 
Avery A. Morton; Frank J. Platt; Hale Printup; Gordon D. Shorney; 
Elliott Smeeth; Mrs. Richard Wilson Steele; Arthur L. Thexton; 
Professor Edward Wagenknecht; Miss Ruth Wagenknecht; Philip 
M. White; Mrs. Mildred B. Wilcox; The Reverend Edward W. 
Willcox; Mrs. Janet Lewis Winters; Lyman Worthington; Miss 
Margaret Wright; Miss Mignon Wright; Deb Wylder; and Dr. 
Eugene Youngert. 

1. Janet Lewis Winters to CAF, May 8, 1952. Mrs. Winters, wife 
of the critic and poet, Yvor Winters, and herself a well-known 
poet and university teacher, graduated from Oak Park High 
School in 1916. 

2. There is a harsher picture of both Oak Park and its high school, 
as experienced by one of the few lower middle-class members 
of the overwhelmingly middle-class student body, in the auto- 
biography of Robert St. John, This Was My World (Double- 
day, 1953). St. John's comments are a realistic antidote to the 
consistently mellow recollections of the majority group to 
which Hemingway belonged, but as a distinct minority report 
they do not alter the general picture of secure and prosperous 

3. Samuel Putnam, Paris Was Our Mistress (Viking, 1947), 128- 
29. Solemn literary pronouncements of this kind are generally 
ironic on Hemingway's part. The statement itself, however, is 
well authenticated; Putnam made immediate notes on the con- 

268 NOTES 

versation, which took place in Paris shortly after the publica- 
tion of The Sun Also Rises in 1926. 

4. Senior Tabula (Publishing Board of the Oak Park and River 
Forest Township High School, 1917), 105. The final issue of 
the Tabula was annually entitled Senior Tabula, fulfilling the 
function of a Class Book for the graduating class. Hereafter 
cited as Senior Tabula. 

5. "Monologue to the Maestro," 174B. 

6. Senior Tabula, 23. 

7. Ernest Hemingway, "Judgment of Manitou," Tabula, XXII 
(February, 1916), 9-10. Both the Tabula and the Trapeze were 
indifferently proofread. Mistakes in punctuation and spelling 
have been silently corrected. 

8. Ernest Hemingway, "A Matter of Colour," Tabula, XXIII 
(April, 1916), 16-17. 

9. Ernest Hemingway, "Sepi Jingan," Tabula, XXIII (Novem- 
ber, 1916), 8-9. 

10. Ernest Hemingway, "How Ballad Writing Affects Our Sen- 
iors," Tabula, XXIII (November, 1916), 41. 

11. Ernest Hemingway, "The Inexpressible," Tabula, XXIII 
(March, 1917), 46; ibid., "The Worker," 22. 

12. Ernest Hemingway and Fred Wilcoxen, "Athletic Verse," 
Tabula, XXIII (March, 1917), 39. 

13. EH to CAF, September 23, 1951. Hemingway had forgotten 
a vivid description of football's tedious horrors in The Tor- 
rents of Spring (Scribner's, 1926), 85-6. 

14. Trapeze, VI (March 2, 1917), [1]. 

15. "Ring Lardner Returns," Trapeze, VI (May 4, 1917), [3]. 

16. "Some Space Filled by Ernest Macnamara Hemingway," Tra- 
peze, XXV (May 11, 1917), [3]. The volume numbering of the 
paper shifts unaccountably in several issues of this period. The 
bound volume, however, is labeled without variation as 
Volume VI. 

17. "High Lights and Low Lights," Trapeze, XXV (May 25, 
1917), [4]. 

18. Trapeze, XXV (May 25, 1917), [2]. 

19. Ibid., [1]. This was an unsigned article listing the college 
plans of the class of 1917. 

20. Ernest Hemingway, "Class Prophecy," Senior Tabula, 57-62. 

21. Ernest Hemingway, "Defense of Dirty Words," Esquire, II 
(September, 1934), 158D. 

22. Idem. 

NOTES 269 


This chapter, like its predecessor, could not have been written 
without the patient assistance of a number of generous people. The 
reliance upon their testimony is necessarily heavy, since no ma- 
terial comparable to Hemingway's high school writing is available 
to the student of his Kansas City period. Save for the single ex- 
ception noted in the text, it is impossible to identify with real 
assurance the stories written by Hemingway for the Star in 1917 
and 1918. 1 am irreparably indebted to the following individuals for 
their many kindnesses: Charles I. Blood; Sumner Blossom; George 
T. Bye; Marvin H. Creager; Russel Grouse; Clyde Brion Davis; 
J. N. Darling; J. Charles Edgar; Paul W. Fisher; E. B. Garnett; 
Norman Greer; the late Henry J. Haskell; Wilson Hicks; Clifford 
Knight; Landon Laird; Frances and Richard Lockridge; the late 
Lionel C. Moise; William B. Moorhead; William M. Reddig; 
Robert H. Reed; T. Murray Reed; John Selby; Wesley W. Stout; 
E. H. Taylor; Harry Van Brunt; Marcel Wallenstein; C. G. 
Wellington; Paul I. Wellman; Dale Wilson; and Montgomery 

1. Maxwell Perkins, "Ernest Hemingway," Book-of-the-Month 
Club News (October, 1940), 4. This brief sketch by Heming- 
way's editor and friend was written on the occasion of the 
publication of For Whom the Bell Tolls. 

2. Tyler Hemingway died in Kansas City in 1922. Henry J. 
Haskell died on August 20, 1952, after fifty-four years on the 
staff of the Star. He had been its editor since 1928. He was 
twice awarded a Pulitzer Prize. 

3. Courtney Ryley Cooper, "Star Man," Saturday Evening Post, 
CCIX (December 19, 1936), 56. 

4. Henry J. Haskell to CAF, February 8, 1952. 

5. Kansas City Times, November 26, 1940, 1. Hemingway gave 
this interview, published in the morning edition of the Star, 
in Kansas City. The interview, an excellent one, and itself a 
good illustration of Pete Wellington's tutelage, had neither 
by-line nor initials. Its author was Paul W. Fisher, at the time 
a reporter on the Star, and later director of public relations 
for United Aircraft. 

6. Idem. 

7. Mr. Moise died on August 7, 1952, at Desert Hot Springs, 
California. At the time of his death, at the age of sixty-three, 
he was on sick leave from his position a responsible one as 
editor of the Hearst predate service. Even his obituaries did 

270 NOTES 

not include a full list of the papers where he had worked, in 
addition to the Star, during his forty years in American jour- 
nalism: the Chicago Tribune, Boston Record, New York Daily 
News, New Orleans Times-Picayune, Rocky Mountain News, 
Milwaukee Sentinel, New Orleans Item, Los Angeles Exam- 
iner, and the Los Angeles Express, of which he was for a time 
city editor. During the 1930's Moise was both city editor and, 
later, an editorial writer on the Wisconsin News. 

8. Paul W. Fisher to CAF, April 2, 1952. Mr. Fisher was the re- 
porter who interviewed Hemingway for the Kansas City 
Times in November, 1940. See footnote 5, above. 

9. Kansas City Star, March 1, 1918, 1. 

10. These two sketches were first published among the other un- 
titled vignettes of Hemingway's second expatriate volume, in 
our time (Three Mountains Press, 1924), chapters 10-11. See 
Chapter Eleven for a more complete discussion of the in our 
time vignettes. Hereafter cited as in our time. 

11. Kansas City Star, July 17, 1917, 8. 

12. Idem. 

13. in our time, 17. 

14. Ibid., 28-9. 

15. Brumback, 1C. 

16. Idem. 

17. There are a number of other forceful, less extended uses of his 
Kansas City experience throughout Hemingway's mature 
work, additional evidence that the importance of the period 
to him cannot be measured accurately by its relative brevity. 

18. See Chapter Nine for a description of this episode. 


In the preparation of this chapter I became obligated to the 
following individuals for help and advice: Professor Charles 
M. Bakewell; J. Charles Edgar; Mrs. Charles W. Fyfe; William D. 
Home, Jr.; Charles P. LeMieux, Regional Director, American Red 
Cross; Mrs. Dorothy R. McGlone; Marguerite M. Schwarz; Zal- 
mon G. Simmons, Jr.; William B. Smith; and Frederick W. Spiegel. 

1. Brumback, 1C. 

2. Kansas City Star, May 13, 1918, 4. 

3. For a more complete history of the American Field Service, 
see Charles A. Fenton, "Ambulance Drivers in France and 
Italy: 1914-1918," American Quarterly, HI (Winter, 1951), 

NOTES 271 

4. Charles M. Bakewell, The Story of the American Red Cross 
in Italy (Macmillan, 1920), 223-24. Professor Bakewell, Shel- 
don Clark Professor Emerims of Philosophy at Yale Univer- 
sity, was a member of the Public Information Department of 
the Red Cross in Italy in 1918. His volume is the only com- 
plete account of Red Cross activities in Italy in World War I, 
although it should be supplemented by Red Cross bulletins and 

5. Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa (Scribner's, 1935), 

6. Brumback, 1C. The remainder of the account of the trip to 
Europe and the events in Paris is based upon this article. 

7. Kansas City Star, July 14, 1918, 5 A. Hereafter cited as Star. 

8. Ernest Hemingway, "A Natural History of the Dead," Win- 
ner Take Nothing (Scribner's, 1933), 140. The story, which 
had no magazine publication, originally appeared the year be- 
fore as part of one of the dialogues with the old lady of 

9. Star. 

10. Ciao (June, 1918), [1]. 

11. Ibid., [3]. 

12. Brumback, 2C. 

13. Star. 

14. Oak Leaves, August 10, 1918, 56. Brumback's letter to Doctor 
Hemingway was reprinted in the Oak Park weekly news- 
paper as part of an article about Hemingway. 

15. Idem. 

16. Current Biography: 1948 (H. W. Wilson Co., 1949), 409. 

17. Oak Leaves, October 5, 1918, 12. 

18. Ibid., August 10, 1918, 56. 

19. Ernest Hemingway to Maxwell Perkins, December 21, 1926. 
Baker, 4n. 

20. Frederic Manning, The Middle Parts of Fortune (Piazza 
Press, 1929). The novel, one of the most memorable of World 
War I, was published anonymously. Manning was a member 
of London and Paris avant garde groups. He died in 1935. 
There was only one edition of the original version. In 1930 
there appeared another edition, "with certain prunings and 
excisions," under the title, Her Privates We, this time with 
Private 19022 listed as its author. 

21. Ernest Hemingway, "Introduction," Men at War (Crown, 
1942), xvi. 

22. Ibid., xiv. 

23. Ibid., xiii-xiv. 

24. Oak Leaves, October 5, 1918, 12. 

272 NOTES 

25. Ibid., 13. 

26. Dorothy Vandercook, "For Whom the Bell Tolled," Chicago 
Tribune, December 3, 1940, 14. This letter by a grammar 
school classmate was sent to the reporter then writing the 
Tribune's famous "Line o' Type" column. It was occasioned 
by the columnist's erroneous reflection, a few days earlier, 
that Hemingway had never used his Chicago background in 
any of his fiction. 

27. Ernest Hemingway, "Soldier's Home," Contact Collection of 
Contemporary Writers (Contact Publishing Company, 1925), 

28. Brumback, 2C. 

29. Ernest Hemingway, "Up in Michigan," Three Stories & Ten 
Poems (Contact Publishing Company, 1923), 3-10. See Chapter 
Seven for additional comment on this story. 


The testimony of Gregory Clark and the late J. Herbert Cranston 
is drawn from the author's correspondence and/or interviews with 
them, from Mr. Cranston's posthumous autobiography, Ink On My 
Fingers (Ryerson Press, 1953), and from three articles: Herbert 
Cranston, "Hemingway's Early Days," Midland (Ont.) Free Press 
Herald (October 17, 1945), 2, and "When Hemingway Earned 
Half a Cent a Word on the Toronto Star," New York Herald 
Tribune Book Review (January 13, 1952), 6; and Gregory Clark, 
"Hemingway Slept Here," Montreal Standard (November 4, 
1950), 13-14. In addition to my debts to Mr. Clark and Mr. Crans- 
ton, as well as to Mr. W. H. Cranston for permission to quote 
from his father's correspondence, I am also obligated to the fol- 
lowing individuals: Nathaniel A. Benson; Arthur S. Bourinot; the 
late Augustus Bridle; Ralph B. Cowan; Alan Creighton; William 
Arthur Deacon; Merrill Denison; Grant Dexter; Wilfred Eggles- 
ton; Roben: A. Farquharson; Edward M. Gundy; Wellington J. 
Jeffers; Professor Fred Landon; J. V. McAree; D. C. Me Arthur; 
W. L. McGeary; Professor Kenneth MacLean; Carlton McNaught; 
J. A. McNeil; Keith Munro; Mark E. Nichols; Lome Pierce; 
Gillis Purcell; Emerson B. Reid; David B. Rogers; Bernard K. 
Sandwell; Charles Vining; Claire Wallace; Clifford Wallace; and 
John Winterbottom. 

1. J. Herbert Cranston to CAF, August 7, 1951. Mr. Cranston 
was assistant managing editor of the Toronto DS when the 
weekend edition, the Toronto SW, was launched in 1910. In 

NOTES 273 

1911 he was transferred to the new publication as its editor. 
He remained in charge until his resignation in 1932. He died 
in Midland, Ontario, in December, 1952. 

2. Gregory Clark to CAF, June 19, 1952 (Int.). Gregory Clark 
was not only the SW's feature editor in 1920, but also one of 
its outstanding staff writers. He has become widely known and 
respected as a Canadian newspaperman, war correspondent, 
and radio writer. In Toronto he is regarded as the unofficial 
keeper of the narrative and legends of Hemingway's Canadian 

3. SW, February 14, 1920, 7. Verification of this article as Hem- 
ingway's comes from the Star's pay records. The indifferent 
proofreading of both the DS and the SW particularly the 
former is a convincing symptom of their casual professional 
standards. Spelling mistakes have been silently corrected, al- 
though English-Canadian variations of American spellings are 
retained. The punctuation has not been altered save in the 
case of extreme and confusing errors. 

4. Ibid., March 6, 1920, 13. 

5. Ibid., March 13, 1920, 11. 

6. Ibid., April 10, 1920, 17. 

7. Ibid., March 13, 1920, 10. 

8. Ibid., April 24, 1920, 13. 

9. For the student of Hemingway's metaphor there are signifi- 
cant parallels between this section of the 1920 SW article and 
the long, provocative short story written in 1924, "Big Two- 
Hearted River," particularly in terms of the ritualistic therapy 
so important to the story's theme. 

10. SW, June 26, 1920, 17; ibid., August 5, 1920, 11. 

11. Ibid., August 28, 1920, 24. 

12. Ibid., November 20, 1920, 25-26. 

13. Ibid., April 10, 1920, 12. 

14. Ibid., April 24, 1920, 11. 

15. Lionel Moise was a bona fide expert on the hobo world. A 
veteran of the Kansas City Star, who watched his local arrivals 
and departures for fifteen years, remembered that Moise "had 
visited probably every hobo jungle between the Pacific Coast 
and Kansas City." Once when a tramp came to the Star with 
an intriguing but fantastic story, he was automatically turned 
over to Moise for interrogation. Moise and the bum conversed 
in a dialect of jungle language, entirely unintelligible to the 
other reporters. After a few minutes Moise pronounced the 
story authentic and it was used in the next edition. 

16. SW, April 3, 1920, 9, 12. 

17. Ibid., June 5, 1920, 1 (General Section). 

274 NOTES 

18. Ibid., December 11, 1920, 25-26. 

19. Cranston said in an article describing his association with 
Hemingway that the American "wrote some twenty-four 
pieces" for the SW in 1920. Cranston kept his own books 
during this period; he derived the figures from these records 
and from the payment entries in the Star's own accounts. If 
Hemingway did sell nine additional articles to the SW in 
1920 they were either brief ones, without by-lines which is 
unlikely, since by-lines were lavishly given or were bought 
but never printed. The second alternative is more probable; 
it would nave been consistent with Cranston's generosity 
toward his contributors. The discrepancy may also arise in 
part, on the other hand, from the inclusion in Cranston's fig- 
ures of some or all of the seven by-lined articles the SW 
bought from Hemingway in 1921. See Chapter Five. 

20. In January, 1952, in his Herald Tribune article, Cranston cited 
half a cent a word as "our regular rate on the SW in those 
early days." In a letter of August 7, 1951 to the author, he 
said, "I think I paid him about 34 a cent a word to begin with, 
which later reached one cent." 


It is both a pleasure and an embarrassment to acknowledge in 
several cases for the second or third time the generous help I 
received from the following individuals in the preparation of this 
chapter: Gregory Clark; the late J. Herbert Cranston; Roy Dickey; 
William D. Home, Jr.; Professor Norman F. Maclean; Florence E. 
Parker, Specialist on Cooperatives, Bureau of Labor Statistics, U. S. 
Department of Labor; William B. Smith; Y. K. Smith; Jerry 
Voorhis, Executive Secretary, Cooperative League of the United 
States of America; Dr. James Peter Warbasse; Professor Colston E. 
Warne, Department of Economics, Amherst College; and Donald 
M. Wright. 

1. H. Rappaport, "False Cooperatives and a $15,000,000 Shell- 
Game," Nation, CXIH (October 19, 1921), 447. Hereafter 
cited as Nation. 

2. During the 1940's Harrison Parker emerged from retirement 
as the self-styled hereditary chancellor of The Puritan Church. 
He was reported to have taken in over $230,000 through a 
puzzle contest to raise a "building fund." The Appellate Court 
of Illinois ruled that "no Puritan Church, no theology, con- 
gregation or services existed," and that Parker, his wife, and 

NOTES 275 

sister constituted the "governing body." The court ordered 
Parker to return the contributions of five complainants. The 
federal government thereupon filed an income tax lien for 
$39,184.24 against The Puritan Church for taxes allegedly due 
on its income between 1945 and 1948. 

3. "The Co-operative Society of America," Co-operation, VII 
(July, 1921), 118. Co-operation, a monthly publication of the 
Cooperative League of the United States of America, was 
edited by Dr. James P. Warbasse, an effective enemy of spuri- 
ous co-operatives. 

4. Nation, 447. 

5. Y. K. Smith was at this time about forty years old. He has had 
an extensive career in the advertising business, and was for 
many years copy chief of the New York office of D'Arcy 
Advertising Company, a St. Louis agency, one of the larger 
American advertising organizations. 

6. [Donald M. Wright], "A Mid-Western Ad Man Remembers," 
Advertising & Selling, XXVIII (March 25, 1937), 54. Donald 
Wright is now a free-lance writer. Hereafter cited as "Mid- 
Western Ad Man." 

7. Ernest M. Hemingway, "A Divine Gesture," Double-Dealer, 
III (May, 1922), 267-68. Almost thirty years later Heming- 
way returned briefly to this genre with two fables, "The Good 
Lion" and "The Faithful Bull," Holiday, IX (March, 1951), 
[50-51]. "The Good Lion" is reprinted in The Hemingway 
Reader, ed. Charles Poore (Scribner's, 1953), 611-14. 

8. Ernest M. Hemingway, "Ultimately," Double-Dealer, III 
(June, 1922), 337. 

9. Sherwood Anderson, Sherwood Anderson's Memoirs (Har- 
court, Brace, 1942), 474-75. Hereafter cited as Memoirs. 

10. Co-operative Commonwealth, II (September, 1920), 3. 

11. "Mid-Western Ad Man," 54, 58. 

12. SW, May 21, 1921, 21; ibid., August 20, 1921, 22; ibid., De- 
cember 17, 1921, 15. 

13. Ibid., July 2, 1921, 21. 

14. Ibid., February 19, 1921, 13. 

15. The misspelling occurred in the articles of February 19, May 
21, July 2, August 20, and December 7 in the five articles, 
in other words, which were set up as columns. 

16. SW, May 21, 1921, 21. 

17. Ibid., February 19, 1921, 13. 

18. Ibid., July 2, 1921, 21. 

19. Ibid., February 19, 1921, 13. 

20. Ibid., November 12, 1921, 11. 

21. Ibid., May 28, 1921, 21. 

276 NOTES 

22. Ibid., December 17, 1921, 15. 

23. The Toronto Star Reference Library. 

24. John Bone died in 1928. He had some of Pete Wellington's 
qualities dedication to the paper, absorption in his profession, 
rigid insistence on a responsible level of performance but he 
lacked the Kansas City editor's consuming regard for good 
writing. Although Bone was invariably astute in the recogni- 
tion of talent, his primary concerns were the expansion of the 
Star's circulation and the solidification of his own personal 
position. There is no evidence that he ever attempted to in- 
fluence Hemingway's style or treatment of material, or that 
he regarded Hemingway as a promising creative writer. He 
simply saw in the young American's lively gifts an inexpensive 
way of making the Star more readable. 

25. Harvey Breit, u Talk with Ernest Hemingway," New York 
Times Book Review (September 7, 1952), 20. 

26. Memoirs, 473. 


1. Sherwood Anderson to Lewis Galantiere, November 28, 1921. 
Letters of Sherwood Anderson, ed. Howard Mumford Jones & 
Walter B. Rideout (Little, Brown, 1953), 82-3. 

2. EH to Sherwood Anderson, no date. The letter was written 
from Paris, shortly before Christmas, 1921. 

3. Carlton McNaught, Canada Gets the News (Ryerson Press, 
1940), 145-46. 

4. SW, February 18, 1922, 15. 

5. Ibid., February 4, 1922, 3. 

6. Ibid., March 4, 1922, 25. 

7. Ibid., March 25, 1922, 15. 

8. Robert McAlmon to Norman Holmes Pearson, February 28, 

9. EH to Sherwood Anderson, March 9, 1922. 

10. SW, March 18, 1922, 12; ibid., March 4, 1922, 3. 

11. Ibid., March 11, 1922, 12. 

12. Ibid., 13. 

13. Ibid., March 18, 1922, 15. 

14. Ibid., March 25, 1922, 22. 

15. Ibid., 3. 

16. Ibid., April 15, 1922, 29. 

17. DS, April 13, 1922, 17. 

18. Ibid., April 10, 1922, 1. 

19. Ibid., April 24, 1922, 1, 2 

NOTES 277 

20. Ibid., 2. 

21. Ibid., April 18, 1922, 1. 

22. Ibid., June 10, 1922, 5. 

23. Ibid., June 24, 1922, 16; SW, June 24, 1922, 5. 

24. See Chapter Nine. 

25. See Chapter Eleven. 

26. SW y August 12, 1922, 11. 


Many people contributed immeasurably to this and the previous 
chapter, including Louis Henry Cohn; Max Eastman; Wilbur For- 
rest; Otis L. Guernsey, Jr.; Mrs. Guy Hickok; Thayer Jaccaci; 
Harold Loeb; Frank Mason; and Professor Carl F. Schreiber. I am 
also indebted to Stanley Pargellis and the staff of The Newberry 
Library for their kindnesses, and to Mr. Pargellis for permission to 
quote from the Library's unpublished correspondence between 
Hemingway and Sherwood Anderson. I am similarly obligated to 
Carl Van Vechten as executor of the Gertrude Stein papers in the 
Yale Collection of American Literature, and to Donald Gallup and 
Alfred A. Knopf as editor and publisher of letters written to Miss 
Stein; and to Edmund Wilson for permission to quote from the 
Hemingway correspondence printed in Mr. Wilson's The Shores 
of Light. My greatest debt is to Professor Norman Holmes Pear- 
son for the patience with which he shared and clarified his ideas 
about Stein's work; the general pattern and treatment of her lit- 
erary relationship with Hemingway, and some details I have cited, 
I owe to "Gertrude Stein and Writing on Writing," a lecture 
given by Professor Pearson on November 7, 1952 as a Peters Rush- 
ton Seminar at the University of Virginia. 

1. John Peale Bishop, "Homage to Hemingway," New Republic, 
LXXXIX (November 11, 1936), 40. Bishop quoted Heming- 
way directly: "Ezra [Pound] was right half the time, and 
when he was wrong, he was so wrong you were never in any 
doubt about it. Gertrude was always right." 

2. EH to Sherwood Anderson, May 23, 1922. 

3. In Our Time was published in New York in September, 1925. 
The finished manuscript had been sent to New York, to 
Donald Ogden Stewart, in September, 1924. The five Euro- 
pean stories therefore become, in terms of acquiring the ex- 
perience, largely the product of 1922, the first six months of 
1923 the Hemingways returned to Canada in August, 1923 
and part of 1924. During 1922, in other words, Hemingway 

278 NOTES 

accumulated at least the outlines of the material for such 
stories as "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot," which dealt with an ex- 
patriate poet; "Cat in the Rain," with its portrait of a young 
American couple in Italy; the Tyrolese story, "Out of Season," 
which included another aspect of expatriation; the sketch of 
expatriate response to a return to the United States, "Cross 
Country Snow"; and "My Old Man," the long narrative about 
an expatriate American jockey and his son. 

4. EH to Sherwood Anderson, March 9, 1922. 

5. Gertrude Stein to Sherwood Anderson, undated letter [spring, 
1922]. "[Hemingway] is a delightful fellow," Miss Stein told 
Anderson, "and I like his talk. . . ." 

6. Toklas, 260. 

7. William L. Phillips, "How Sherwood Anderson Wrote Wines- 
burg, Ohio" American Literature, XXIII (March, 1951), [7]- 

8. Frank Mason to CAP, September 17, 1952 (Int.). Mason re- 
mained in charge of the Paris office of I.N.S. until 1926. He 
is regarded by survivors of the period, including himself, as 
the original of the American newspaperman named Krum who 
appears briefly in Chapter Five of The Sun Also Rises. 

9. Guy Hickok died in 1951. It was with Hickok that Heming- 
way made, in the former's Ford, the trip through Italy that 
resulted in the 1927 short story, "Che Ti Dice La Patria?" 
Mr. Hickok was associated with the Voice of America at the 
time of his death. Prior to this he had been Program Director 
of NBC's International Division. 

10. EH to Edmund Wilson, November 25, 1923. Edmund Wilson, 
The Shores of Light (Farrar, Straus and Young, 1952), 117. 

11. Ibid., 118. 

12. Gertrude Stein, "How Writing Is Written," The Oxford 
Anthology of American Literature, II, ed. William Rose 
Benet and Norman Holmes Pearson (Oxford University Press, 
1938), 1451. Hereafter cited as Oxford. 

13. EH to Sherwood Anderson, May 23, 1922. 

14. Oxford, 1447. 

15. Toklas, 266. 

16. Idem. 

17. Idem. 

18. Ernest Hemingway, "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot," In Our Time 
(Boni & Liveright, 1925), 109. 

19. "Monologue to the Maestro," 174B. 

20. Oxford, 1449. 

21. EH to Gertrude Stein, August 15 [1924]. The Flowers of 
Friendship: Letters Written to Gertrude Stein, ed. Donald 

NOTES 279 

Gallup (Alfred A. Knopf, 1953), 165. Hereafter cited as 

22. "Monologue to the Maestro," 21. 

23. Toklas, 265. 

24. EH to Gertrude Stein, August 15 [1924]. Gallup, 164. 

25. Gertrude Stein, Narration (Chicago University Press, 1933), 

26. William Bird was at this time European manager of the Con- 
solidated Press. He was also publishing expatriate work in 
Paris; in 1924 he printed Hemingway's in our time. 

27. EH to Gertrude Stein, November 9, 1923. 

28. DITA, 2. 

29. DS, September 9, 1922, 8. 

30. Ibid., September 19, 1922, 4. 

31. Ibid., September 1, 1922, 23. 

32. Ibid., September 2, 1922, 28. 

33. Ibid., September 5, 1922, 5. 

34. Ibid., September 30, 1922, 9. 

35. SW, September 30, 1922, 16. 

36. Ernest Hemingway, "An Alpine Idyll," American Caravan, ed. 
Van Wyck Brooks et al. (Macaulay, 1927), 46-51. 

37. "Old Newsman Writes," 26. 

38. Ernest Hemingway, "a.d. Southern Style," Esquire, III (May, 
1935), 25. 

39. Idem. 


1. EH to CAP, September 23, 1951. 

2. DS, September 30, 1922, 1. 

3. Idem. 

4. Ibid., October 23, 1922, 1 (Second Section). 

5. Ibid., September 30, 1922, 1. 

6. Ibid., October 24, 1922, 1 (Second Section). 

7. At this point in the article, in verification of Hemingway's 
foresight, the DS news editor inserted a note pointing out that 
on the previous day, almost three weeks after Hemingway 
wrote his story, a wire service cable had revealed that the 
Turks would indeed claim Mesopotamia at the forthcoming 
peace conference. 

8. DS, October 28, 1922, 1 (Second Section). 

9. Ibid., October 9, 1922, 1. 

10. Ibid., October 31, 1922, 5. 

11. "Monologue to the Maestro," 174B. The first line of Heming- 
way's October 9 cable was itself a variation of the opening 

280 NOTES 

sentence of Kipling's short story about an earlier Russian 
threat to Afghanistan, "The Man Who Was": "Let it be 
clearly understood," Kipling had begun, "that the Russian is 
a delightful person till he tucks in his shirt." 

12. Ibid., 21. 

13. Ernest Hemingway, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," Esquire, 
VI (August, 1936), 197. 

14. DS, November 3, 1922, 10. 

15. Hemingway mailed from Constantinople on October 18 a long 
article which was the least impressive of his Near East dis- 
patches. It was published in the DS on November 10, on page 
12, but in treatment it was an uncharacteristic return to his 
loose, SW approach. He presented a grab bag of material 
whose various sections were held together only by their 
common connection with naval episodes in the Bosphorus. Its 
appeal for a Canadian audience was in its obvious admiration 
for the Royal Navy. Its paragraphs were hearty and British, 
and a reminder that Hemingway was accustomed to being 
paid by the word. It was also mildly corrupt as a piece of 
journalism, since at no point did he fulfill in any complete 
way his avowed, censor-free exposure of naval activities. 

16. DS, October 20, 1922, 1 (Second Section). 

17. Malcolm Cowley, "A Portrait of Mister Papa," Ernest Hem- 
ingivay: The Man and His Work, ed. John K. M. McCaffery 
(World, 1950), 49. 

18. DITA,4. 

19. EH to CAP, September 23, 1951. In 1934, in an angry de- 
nunciation of the complacent indignation of literary critics 
about the depression, Hemingway defined his position sim- 
ilarly when he declared that "things were in just as bad shape, 
and worse, as far as vileness, injustice and rottenness are con- 
cerned, in 1921, '22 and '23 as they are now. . . ." "Old News- 
man Writes," 25. 

20. See Chapter Eleven for a more complete discussion of this 
1922 dispatch and its relationship to the vignettes of in our 

21. DS, November 14, 1922, 7. 

22. DITA, 3. 

23. Ernest Hemingway, "Introduction by the Author," In Our 
Time (Scribner's, 1930), 9-12. The sketch was retitled "On the 
Quai at Smyrna" in the 1938 collection of all Hemingway's 
short stories through that date [Ernest Hemingway, The Fifth 
Column and the First Forty -Nine Stories (Scribner's, 1938), 
185-86], and retains this title in subsequent publication. 

24. DITA, 2, 135. 

NOTES 281 

25. Lincoln Steffens, Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens (Har- 
court, Brace, 1931), 834. 

26. Frank Mason's recollection thirty years later was that Hem- 
ingway cabled him relatively little material; most of it, he 
added, was of no particular use to a syndicate primarily in- 
terested in spot news. Mason felt that he did remember one 
eloquent paragraph dealing with a refugee scene. 

27. "Old Newsman Writes," 25. 


The help of the following individuals was generously available to 
me in the preparation of the two chapters Eight and Nine on 
the Near East Assignment: Charles F. Bertelli; Constantine Brown; 
Robert McAlmon; Frank Mason; Mrs. Paul Scott Mowrer; G. 
Ward Price; Henry Wales; and Basil Woon. 

1. George Slocombe, The Tumult and the Shouting (Macmillan, 
1936), 191-92. Slocombe represented the London Daily Herald 
at Lausanne. In 1946 he became literary editor of the Euro- 
pean edition of the New York Herald Tribune. 

2. Henry Wales to CAF, August 7, 1952. Mr. Wales succeeded 
Floyd Gibbons as the Chicago Tribune's chief European cor- 

3. Charles F. Bertelli to CAF, August 19, 1952. 

4. "Malady of Power," 31. 

5. Ludwell Denny, "Up in Curzon's Room," Nation, CXVI 
(January 10, 1923), 40. 

6. "Malady of Power," 31. 

7. Ernest Hemingway, "They All Want Peace What Is 
Peace?" Little Review, IX (Spring, 1923), 20-21. 

8. EH to Edmund Wilson, November 25, 1923. Edmund Wil- 
son, The Shores of Light (Farrar, Straus and Young, 1952), 

9. Bolitho's obituary in the New York Herald Tribune two days 
after his death in France on June 2, 1930 was a full column 
long. It discussed in some detail not only his colorful career 
but also his work and personality. The obituary quoted from 
his journalism to illustrate his "knack for polishing off a per- 
son with a single, compact . . . epigrammatic phrase." Bolitho's 
style, in other words, was a journalistic rendition of the sort 
of thing Gertrude Stein was doing and teaching in a more 
literary way. Hemingway's Lausanne poem echoes such Ryal- 
lisms as, "Hoover will make a good President because he does 

282 NOTES 

not know how to enjoy himself," and "Ramsay MacDonald is 
a swell political barytone." 

10. "Malady of Power," 31. 

11. Idem. 

12. William Bolitho, Twelve Against the Gods (Simon and 
Schuster, 1929). This collection of studies of a variety of his- 
torical figures, ranging from Alexander the Great through 
Casanova, Isadora Duncan, and Woodrow Wilson, was Boli- 
tho's greatest success. His theme was that the adventurer is 
an outlaw. "Adventure," he wrote in his Introduction, "must 
start with running away from home." For a portrait of 
Bolitho which confirms and extends the kind of personal in- 
fluence he exerted, see Sisley Huddleston, Back to Montpar- 
nasse (Lippincott, 1931), 250-54. 

13. "Malady of Power," 31. 

14. Walter Duranty, / Write as I Please (Simon and Schuster, 
1935), 95, 169. 

15. Ibid., 95. 

16. William Bolitho, Twelve Against the Gods (Readers Club, 
1941), ix. 

17. Ibid. (Modern Age Books, 1937), viii. 

18. "Malady of Power," 199. 

19. Ibid., 31. 

20. Ibid., 31, 198. Also, G. Ward Price to CAF, August 30, 1952. 
Mr. Price is still a featured correspondent for the Daily Mail. 

21. Lincoln Steffens, Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens (Har- 
court, Brace, 1931), 834. 

22. Hadley R. Mowrer to CAF, March 25, 1952. Hemingway said 
in 1951 that he "felt so badly about the loss that II] would 
almost have resorted to surgery in order to forget it." Baker, 
12. See also Hemingway's preface to Lee Samuels, A Heming- 
way Check List (Scribner's, 1951). 

23. DS, January 27, 1923, 11. 

24. EH to CAF, July 29, 1952. 

25. Hemingway had mentioned Bottomley earlier in 1922, briefly, 
in the article on Rhone Canal fishing, DS, June 10, 5. Hem- 
ingway there explained that he was carrying a copy of the 
London Daily Mail to wrap the fish in. At sundown, he wrote, 
the moment arrived at which "to rewrap the trout in Lord 
NorthclifFe's latest speech . . . and, saving the Bottomley case 
to read on the train going home, put the trout filled paper 
in your jacket pocket." 

26. The majority of American estimates of Mussolini, with the 
notable exception of a New York World series by Bolitho, 
were distinctly enthusiastic and admiring. 

NOTES 283 

27. Time, XXXV (June 24, 1940), 92. 

28. DS, February 10, 1923, 2. 

29. Robert McAlmon to Norman Holmes Pearson, February 28, 

30. See Chapter Eleven. 


1. "Old Newsman Writes," 25. 

2. For a check list of this material, as well as a comprehensive 
description and analysis of the Spanish Civil War period, see 

3. SW, April 14, 1923, 2. 

4. DS, April 14, 1923, 4. 

5. Ibid., April 18, 1923, 1, 4. 

6. Ibid., April 21, 1923, 1, 7. 

7. SW, April 14, 1923, 2. 

8. Ernest Hemingway, "A Paris Letter," Esquire, I (February, 
1934), 156. 

9. Ernest Hemingway, "a.d. Southern Style: A Key West Let- 
ter," Esquire, III (May, 1935), 25. 

10. DS, May 1, 1923, 1, 28. 

11. Ibid., April 25, 1923, 1, 2. 

12. Ibid., April 28, 1923, 1, 2. 

13. Ibid., May 5, 1923, 1, 34. 

14. Ibid., May 9, 1923, 1 (Second Section). 

15. Ibid., May 12, 1923, 1 (Second Section). 

16. Ibid., May 16, 1923, 1 (Second Section). 

17. Ibid., May 12, 1923, 1 (Second Section). 

18. Ibid., May 16, 1923, 1 (Second Section). 

19. SW, April 14, 1923, 2. 

20. Idem. 


1. Archibald MacLeish, "Years of the Dog," ACT FIVE and 
Other Poems (Random House, 1948), 53. 

2. EH to Edmund Wilson, November 25, 1923. Edmund Wilson, 
The Shores of Light (Farrar, Straus and Young, 1952), 117. 

3. Harvey Breit, "Talk with Mr. Hemingway," New York Times 
Book Review, LV (September 17, 1950), 14. 

4. Cohn, 16. 

284 NOTES 

5. Ernest Hemingway, Three Stories & Ten Poems (Contact 
Publishing Company, 1923). The stories were "Up in Michi- 
gan," "Out of Season," and "My Old Man." Six of the ten 
poems had been published in Poetry , XXI (January, 1923), 
193-95. The pamphlet was originally advertised in the spring 
of 1923 as 2 Stories & 10 Poems. McAlmon described the series 
as a whole as "dedicated to the idea that artists need not please 
either money-making publishers, or a main street public." 
There were three hundred copies printed, many of which 
Hemingway distributed himself; the pamphlet was also on 
sale at Sylvia Beach's Paris bookstore. 

6. The critical reception of Three Stories & Ten Poems, in fact, 
was characteristic of the fate of most expatriate volumes of 
the period. The only public recognition the pamphlet received 
in 1923 was a short paragraph by Burton Rascoe in his New 
York Tribune column, "A Bookman's Daybook," in which he 
mentioned having received a copy from Lewis Galantiere, 
adding that he had "not yet gotten around to reading it." 

7. Edmund Wilson, "Mr. Hemingway's Dry-Points," Dial, 
LXXVII (October, 1924), 340-41. Hereafter cited as Dial. 

8. Ibid., 340. 

9. Ernest Hemingway, "Homage to Ezra," This Quarter, I 
(May, 1925), 222. 

10. Harvey Breit, "Talk with Mr. Hemingway," New York Times 
Book Review, LV (September 17, 1950), 14. 

11. Like several of his contemporaries Fitzgerald, for example, as 
well as Faulkner and Dos Passos Hemingway wrote a mod- 
erate amount of verse in the process of becoming a prose 
writer. In 1923 he was thinking of his own work in such terms 
that Poetry could describe him as "a young Chicago poet now 
abroad," who would "soon issue in Paris his first book of 
verse." Until the publication of the first six vignettes of in our 
time by the Little Review in April, 1923, in fact, Hemingway's 
published creative work had been almost exclusively verse. His 
response to the variety of Paris associations, to Ezra Pound, to 
Miss Stein, and to the imagists as a school, is apparent in the 
changing contours of his poetry. 

By and large, the poems were least successful when they 
seemed to derive most self-consciously from Hemingway's 
fidelity to the imagist doctrine. When he applied the ideology 
to a deeply felt, rather than a literary experience as, for ex- 
ample, in the brief "Captives," where the metaphor was the 
Thracian refugee procession his use of the discipline was 
more forceful. The gerunds, at least, are reminders that 
whether he was writing prose or poetry he was working in 

NOTES 285 

the aura of Gertrude Stein; for her, as for Pound, the two 
mediums had essentially the same objective. "Do not tell in 
mediocre verse," Pound had said, "what has already been 
done in good prose." The better poems also have the lucidity, 
as well as the meter and rhyme sometimes, of a Kipling or 
Housman refrain. The least flabby were those whose material 
dealt with the themes which would emerge so forcefully in 
his early fiction; his sketches and short stories existed in 
miniature in the verses about war, politics, and boyhood. 

12. These poems are particularly interesting as an early introduc- 
tion of the motif which would dominate most of the fiction 
of Hemingway's first period. This was the thesis which ap- 
peared in In Our Time in 1925, where a Michigan boyhood 
is seen to equate with adult crime and violence and pain. The 
two components of experience, the past and the present, 
lacked the subtlety of balanced restraint that made In Our 
Time's counterpoint so strong, but the poems had a slick 
finish of technical glitter, as well as the idiomatic strength of 
his short stories. 

13. Like Three Stories & Ten Poems , in our time was part of a 
series of uniform volumes. In this case it was a more formal 
sequence, an "Inquest into the state of contemporary English 
prose," edited by Ezra Pound. Hemingway's was the sixth and 
final volume. Six of the eighteen vignettes were evidently 
written between December, 1922, when Hemingway's early 
work was lost in Paris, and April, 1923, when this initial in our 
time material was printed in the Little Review. The remain- 
ing twelve were written prior to the middle of July, 1923, 
when Hemingway delivered the manuscript of in our time. 

14. Cohn, 21. 

15. DITA, 2. 

16. Ernest Hemingway, "In Our Time," Little Review, IX (April, 
1923), 3-5. 

17. DS, October 20, 1922, 1 (Second Section). 

18. Lincoln Steffens, Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens (Har- 
court, Brace, 1931), 834. 

19. DITA, 2. 

20. Ibid., 192. 

21. The gerund was retained in the Scribner 1927 edition of In 
Our Time. The 1930 edition reverted to the in our time form, 
as have subsequent editions. 

22. This particular revision actually went through four drafts 
rather than three. On October 23, 1922, three days after send- 
ing the cable from Adrianople, Hemingway mailed from Sofia 
a long dispatch about the refugee procession. In it he began 

286 NOTES 

the condensation of detail. "I walked five miles with the 
refugees [sic] procession along the road, dodging camels, that 
swayed and grunted along, past flat wheeled ox carts piled 
high with bedding, mirrors, furniture, pigs tied flat, mothers 
huddled under blankets with their babies, old men and 
women. . . ." DS, November 14, 1922, 7. 

23. Idem. 

24. SW, October 20, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

25. Ibid., September 15, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

26. Dial, 341. 


My thanks to Morley Callaghan, Gregory Clark, and the late J. 
Herbert Cranston must be renewed at this point, even before I 
make grateful acknowledgment of the generous help of Clifton W. 
Barrett; Ralph Foster; Peter B. Kyne; O. E. McGillicuddy; Ver- 
non McKenzie; Mrs. Paul Scott Mowrer; Donald and Mary Ross; 
and Allan Wade. 

1. Gertrude Stein to Sherwood Anderson, undated letter (early 

2. The most accurate published estimate of Mr. Hindmarsh is 
Pierre Berton, "Hindmarsh of The Star," Maclean's, LXV 
(April 1, 1952), 16-17, 37-40, 42. 

3. Ibid., 42. 

4. Morley Callaghan to CAP, June 19, 1952 (Int.). Callaghan 
was never a disciple of Hemingway in the patronizing sense 
with which most literary criticism has belittled the Canadian. 
His talent was wholly different, Celtic and imaginative, and his 
style has grown steadily in individuality. The critical dis- 
missal of him as no more than a Hemingway imitator derived 
largely from the fact that his early material was often drawn 
from a reporter's world; like Hemingway, he frequently wrote 
about whores and cops and athletes. For an account of the 
quarrel between Hemingway and Callaghan, see Arthur Miz- 
ener, The Far Side of Paradise (Houghton, Mifflin, 1951), 212- 
13. See also, for Callaghan's version, Jock Carroll, "I Never 
Knocked Out Hemingway," Montreal Standard (March 31, 
1951), 9, 25. 

5. Mary Lowry Ross to CAP, June 20, 1952 (Int.). Much of Mrs. 
Ross's work for the Star in 1923 was feature material for the 
SW, but she also covered sometimes with Hemingway as her 
partner straight news assignments for the DS. 

NOTES 287 

6. DS, September 25, 1923, 4. 

7. Joseph Atkinson died in Toronto in 1948. Although Harry 
Hindmarsh succeeded him as President, Atkinson willed the 
material assets of The Toronto Star Limited to a group of 
trustees, with a number of Ontario charities as beneficiaries 
of the trust. See Pierre Berton, "The Greatest Three-Cent 
Show on Earth," Maclean's, LXV (March 15, 1952), 7-9, 

8. The circulation techniques of the Star were lampooned about 
this time by two Toronto newspapermen, during a period 
when the Star was publishing, with a lavish advertising budget, 
Dickens's Life of Christ, a Life of Edith Cavell, Dickens's 
Love Letters, and gruesome photographs of French battle- 

To Hindmarsh and Knowles 

Mr. Atkinson spoke, 
If we don't sell more papers the Star 

will go broke; 
I've three super-salesmen who say 

they can sell, 
They're Jesus and Dickens and Edith 


Come fill up our columns with sob-stuff 

and sex, 
Shed tears by the gallons and slush 

by the pecks, 
Let the presses revolve like the 

mill-tails of Hell 
For Jesus and Dickens and Edith 


Then hey for the paper that strives 

for the best. 
(If Jesus makes good we'll put over 

Mae West) 
With cuties and comics and corpses 

and smell. 
And Jesus and Dickens and Edith 


9. SW, September 14, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

10. On October 4, a few days after Hemingway's story about the 
Sudbury coal fields, the DS used, unsigned, his interview in 
Toronto with Lord Birkenhead. Hemingway's theme was that 

288 NOTES 

"Lord Birkenhead, the austere, unapproachable, super-cynical, 
and supercilious Earl of Birkenhead, is a myth." He then dem- 
onstrated the invariably successful illusion, journalistically 
speaking, that the Lord High Chancellor was in reality just 
like the DS's readers, only more so. "In fact," Hemingway 
wrote knowledgeably, "in his flannels and striped tie he looked 
not unlike one of the Leander rowing men, except, of course, 
for a slight discrepancy at the waist." DS, October 4, 1923, 12. 

11. Dr. Lome Pierce, editor since 1920 of the distinguished To- 
ronto publishing house, The Ryerson Press, recalls that "I read 
[Hemingway] regularly. ... I was interested in what he had 
to say, and in the way he said it. . . ." 

12. SW, October 20, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section); ibid, October 
27, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

13. Ibid., November 3, 1923, 20; ibid., November 17, 1923, 19; 
ibid., January 12, 1924, 20. 

14. Ibid., November 17, 1923, 19. 

15. John Hadley was the Christian name of the Hemingways' son, 
born in Toronto on October 10, 1923. 

16. SW, November 17, 1923, 18; ibid., November 24, 1923, 19; 
ibid., December 15, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section); ibid., Decem- 
ber 1, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

17. EH to Ernest Walsh and Ethel Morehead, undated letter 
(1925). Mr. Walsh and Miss Morehead were the editors of 
This Quarter, which published such early Hemingway stories 
as "The Undefeated" and "Big Two-Hearted River." 

18. Mr. O. E. McGillicuddy, a reporter on the DS in 1923, and 
later an editor of the Toronto Globe and Mail, said in 1952, 
in this same connection, that Hemingway "heartily disliked 
routine assignments, but could really write a good colour or 
feature article when given the time he felt he required." 

19. SW, November 24, 1923, 35. 

20. Excellent as it was, the Yeats article had a darker side. Several 
weeks later Hemingway wrote another story about the Irish 
poet. It had none of the clarity of its predecessor; it was cheap 
and vulgar, with no more validity than the paragraphs of a 
gossip columnist. Its derisive tone was keyed to his audience's 
prejudices; Hemingway portrayed Yeats as an untidy buffoon 
who during a lecture tour kept his Toronto host up all 
night with his garrulous eccentricities. "He told literary anec- 
dotes. He chanted his own poems. He crooned Erse sagas." 
SW, December 22, 1923, 35. 

On only one occasion, out of the score or more articles he 
wrote that fall, did Hemingway match the intensity of the 
first Yeats story. An article published under his own by-line 

NOTES 289 

on December 8 was an expert instrument of controlled satire. 
The sustained narrative about the pawnshop market for 
second-hand medals was supported by excellent dialogue and 
brief, fresh snatches of exposition. SW, December 8, 1923, 21. 

21. Ibid., 18. 

22. Ibid., December 15, 1923, 21. 

23. Ibid., December 22, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section). 

24. Ibid., December 29, 1923, 1 (Magazine Section); ibid., 20; 
ibid., 20, 21; ibid., January 19, 1924, 19. 

25. Ibid., January 19, 1924, 1 (Magazine Section). 

26. Hemingway's coverage of the arrival of Lloyd George in New 
York and the subsequent official train journey to Montreal was 
his largest single assignment during the four months in To- 
ronto. Hindmarsh's original plan had been to send three cor- 
respondents to Manhattan: Hemingway, Mary Lowry, and 
Robert Reade, one of the DS's top reporters and a favorite of 
Mr. Atkinson. At the last moment Hemingway was informed 
that he would be handling the assignment alone. This was 
itself a shock, since the Star always required a great deal of 
copy, from all angles, on such a story. Coupled with the fact 
of his wife's imminent delivery, it encouraged Hemingway to 
regard the entire episode as a deliberately conceived tactic of 
personal torment. He did the job competently, however. Ex- 
ploiting his previous observation of Lloyd George at Genoa 
the year before, he filed seven prominently featured stories 
between October 3 and October 6; three of them were long 
and detailed, and all but one were by-lined. It was an ex- 
hausting assignment in every way; Lloyd George's first day in 
New York required Hemingway to be with the story from 
early morning at the harbor, through a round of speeches, 
lunch, and receptions, and on to the theater that night. Hem- 
ingway turned the assignment over to another DS corre- 
spondent in Montreal the latter noted in his first dispatch 
that Lloyd George's New York program "would wear out any 
man" but he wasn't able to get back to Toronto for the 
birth of his son; his wife was delivered on October 10, two 
weeks prematurely, while Hemingway was on the train from 
Montreal. See DS, October 5, 1923, 1; ibid., October 6, 1923, 1; 
idem; idem; SW, October 6, 1923, 2; ibid., 3; DS, October 8, 
1923, 14. 

27. The occasion of Hemingway's letter to the Toronto News- 
paper Guild was a personal appeal to him by the late Allen 
May, an employee of the Star who had met Hemingway in 
Spain, where May served during the Civil War in Dr. Nor- 

290 NOTES 

man Bethune's blood bank unit. See also, Pierre Berton, "Hind- 
marsh of The Star," Maclean's, LXV (April 1, 1952), 38. 

28. SW, November 17, 1923, 19. 

29. DS, October 6, 1923, 1. 

30. SW, October 6, 1923, 2. 

31. DS, October 8, 1923, 14. H. G. Wells's Men Like Gods was 
published in 1923. 

32. SW, December 15, 1923, 21. 


Adrianople: 172, 182, 183, 184, 
185, 229, 232 

Advertising & Selling: 108, 275 

Afghanistan: 178, 179, 180 

Aigle: 141 

Aldis, Mrs. Dorothy: 99 

Alps: 62 

Alsace: 53, 168 

A.E.F.: 85 

American Caravan: 167 

American Civil War: 180 

American Field Service: 48, 51, 

American Red Cross: 48, 51, 52 

American Red Cross, Ambulance 
Corps: 52-55, 59, 61, 62 

American Red Cross, Ambulance 
Corps, Section IV: 54, 58, 60, 
61, 62, 66 

American Red Cross, Canteen: 

American Red Cross Hospital, 
Milan: 60, 67, 68, 72 

American Volunteer Motor-Am- 
bulance Corps in France: 52 

Anatolia: 181 

Anderson, Sherwood: 100, 103- 
150, 156, 203, 225, 226, 236, 248 

Anderson, Tennessee: 119 

Anglo-American Press Associa- 
tion: 126 

Anteuil: 185 

Antonio. (Cunard Line): 261 

Aosta: 142 

Aponyi, Count: 256 

Argosy: 113 

Arrens, : 198 

Asia Minor. See Greco-Turk 


Associated Press: 120 
Athens: 237 
Atkinson, Joseph E.: 76, 78, 120, 

250, 287 
Autobiography of Alice B. Tok- 

las: 266 


Baden: 211 
Baker, Carlos: 266 
Bakewell, Charles M.: 271 
Batouala: 132-133 
Baudelaire, Charles: 124 
Beau Brummell: 10 
Beerbohm, Max: 138, 141, 202 
Belgium: 217 
Bellaria: 130 
Berlin: 202 

Bertelli, Charles F.: 188-189 
Bibliography of the Works of 

Ernest Hemingway , A : 266 
Biggs, Fannie: 6-10, 31, 47, 157 
Bird, William: 159, 225, 229 
Birkenhead, 1st Earl of: 287-288 
Bismarck, von, Prince Otto: 177 
Black Forest: 217,252 
Bobbitt, Arthur: 20-24, 26 
Bolitho, William: 151, 190-192, 

201-205, 281, 282 
Bone, John: 116, 133, 142, 160, 

169, 170, 171, 174, 177, 184, 

187, 203, 204, 205, 207, 220, 

222, 244, 245, 250, 276 
Book-of-the-Month Club News: 


Boston Transcript: 250 
Bottomley, Horatio: 200, 282 



Boston University: 53 

Boxing: 16, 20, 94, 102, 103, 104, 


Boys' High School Club: 11 
Boys' Rifle Club: 11-12 
Brooklyn Eagle: 149 
Brumbach, Theodore B.: 47, 48, 

50, 51, 56, 57, 58, 61, 62, 63, 66, 

69,72, 114,266 
Bulgaria: 184 
Bullfighting: 229, 251, 261 
Burke Club: 11,71 
Butts, Alexander: 30 
Byron, George Gordon, 6th 

Baron: 197 

Cabelese: 186-187 
California, University of: 53 
Callaghan, Morley: 148, 246-248, 

257, 286 

Camelots du Roi: 208 
Camping: 26, 28, 87 
Canada. See Toronto. 
Canadian Press: 120 
Caporetto: 113, 182 
Cardinella, Sam: 239 
Carman, Bliss: 254 
Carpentier, Georges: 170 
Cezanne, Paul: 154, 157 
Chambers, Robert W.: 112 
Chamby sur Montreux: 129 
Chasseurs Alpins: 47 
Chaucer, Geoffrey: 6 
Cherbourg: 118 
Chicago: 16, 22, 54, 57, 71, 72, 

74, 93, 95, 96, 99, 100, 146, 147, 

241, 254, 263 

Chicago Daily News: 120, 139 
Chicago (French Line): 55 
Chicago Journal: 72 
Chicago Tribune: 22, 23, 95, 188, 


Chicago, University of: 4, 6, 98 

Child, Richard Washburn: 191 

Church, Mayor Thomas L.: 86- 

Ciao: 58-59 

Cicero, Illinois: 3 

Clark, Gregory: 75, 84, 93, 94, 
105, 115, 243, 246, 247, 251, 
257, 273 

Clemenceau, Georges: 194,211 

Cohn, Louis H.: 228, 266 

Collins, Michael: 175 

Cologne: 166, 205, 211, 218, 219 

Columbus, Christopher: 139 

Communism: EH on, 136-137 

Connable, Ralph: 74, 75 

Conrad, Joseph: 41 

Constantinople: 171 - 173, 175, 
176, 177, 179, 180, 182, 195, 
202, 222 

Contact Collection of Contem- 
porary Writers: 158 

Contact Publishing Company: 

Cooper, Courtney Ryley: 29 

Co-operator, The: 97 

Co-operative Commonwealth-. 
95, 96, 98, 101, 106, 107, 110 

Co-operative Society of Amer- 
ica: 96-99 

Cornell University: 47 

Cortina D'Ampezzo: 203 

Cowan, James: 262 

Cowley, Malcolm: 183 

Cranston, J. Herbert: 74, 77, 78, 
79, 80, 81, 82, 86, 109, 110, 116, 
123, 244, 245, 254, 255, 257, 
261, 272-273 

Creager, Marvin: 41 

Critchfield (Advertising) Agen- 
cy: 99, 118 

Criqui, Eugene: 213 

Grouse, Russel: 33, 35, 39, 40 

Cunard, Nancy: 203 

Curtis Publishing Company: 29 



Curzon, George Nathaniel, 1st 
Marquis Curzon of Kedleston: 
189, 190, 201 


Dada: 185 

Daily Star. See Toronto Daily 


Dartmouth College: 53 
Daudet, Leon: 208 
Denny, Ludwell: 189 
Dennison, Merrill: 79-80 
Detroit: 93 

De Valera, Eamon: 175 
Dial, The: 146, 226 
Diaz, General Armand: 114 
Dickey, Roy: 99 
Dijon: 226 
Dixon, Margaret: 6-9, 14, 18, 19, 

31, 157 

Dolomites: 203, 223 
Dome: 119, 144 
Donaldson, Arthur: 75 
Dorman-Smith, Captain Eric 

Edward: 238 
Dos Passos, John: 99 
Double-Dealer, The: 101, 102 
Dreiser, Theodore: 41 
due d'Orleans: 208 
Duranty, Walter: 193, 194 
Diisseldorf: 211, 219, 220, 221 

Eastern Thrace: 180, 182. See 

Greco-Turk War. 
Eastman, Max: 138, 139, 141 
Edgar, J. Charles (Carl): 28, 36, 

48, 72, 114 
Eliot, T. S.: 227 
England: 53, 99, 178, 204, 208 
Esquire: 151, 194 
Essen: 219 

Europe: 115, 119. See Black For- 
est, Italy, Paris, Spain, etc. 

Fascism, Fascists. See Italy. 
Federal Building (Kansas City, 

Mo.): 35 

Fisher, Paul W.: 269 
Fishing: 20, 26, 28, 72, 87, 122, 

141, 252, 257 
Fitch, Clyde: 10 
Fitzgerald, F. Scott: 149 
Fleurs du Mai: 124 
Foley, Edith: 99, 100 
Football: 7, 19, 20, 268 
Forrest, Wilbur: 138, 144 
Fossalta: 65, 69 
France. See Paris. 
France, Anatole: 101, 248 
Frankfurt: 211,216 
Freiburg: 164, 165 
French Transport Corps: 53 
Frise, James: 76, 257 
Front Page, The: 39 

Galantiere, Lewis: 118, 119, 120 
Galata. See Constantinople. 
Gare du Lyons: 196 
Gare du Nord: 56 
Gehlmann, John: 22, 24 
Genoa: 135-138, 170,222 
Genoa Economic Conference: 

General Hospital (Kansas City, 

Mo.): 33, 34, 35, 36,57 
George I (Greece): 240 
Germany: 134, 145, 159, 168 
G.I. Bill: 71 
Gibraltar: 175 
Gilday, John Patrick: 38 
Girls 7 Rifle Club: 11 



Giuseppe Verdi (Italian Line): 


Godfrey, Harry: 40 
Goncourt Prize: 132 
Gordon, Sir Charles Blair: 140 
Goya y Lucientes, de, Francisco: 


Great Lakes Naval Station: 71 
Greece. See Greco-Turk War. 
Greco-Turk War: 67, 170, 183, 

184, 186, 202, 244, 237 
Griffin, Fred: 93, 94, 251 
Griffith, Arthur: 175 
Guerber, H. A., Myths of 

Greece and Rome: 5 


Hadley, John: 253 

Halifax: 121 

Halley's Comet: 39 

Halton, Matthew: 120 

Hamid Bey: 177 

HannaClub: 11 

Hartley, Marsden: 226 

Haskell, Henry J., Sr.: 29, 269 

Harding, Warren: 108 

Harper's Magazine: 53 

Harvard University: 54 

Hearst, W. R.: 29, 77, 143, 187, 
250. See International News 
Service, Universal News Serv- 

Hecht, Ben: 101 

Hemingway, Anson Taylor 
(uncle): 29,269 

Hemingway, Dr. Clarence E. 
(father): 28,62,64,69, 74 

Hemingway, Ernest: birth, 1; 
family, 3, 12, 14, 95, 226; writes 
for Tabula, 10, 14, 16, 19, 21; 
writes for Trapeze, 10, 14, 20, 
23, 24, 26, 87; writes Class 
Prophecy, 10; in high school 
orchestra, 10; in high school 

Class Play, 10; in high school 
clubs, 10; gets job on Kansas 
City Star, 29; meets Lionel 
Moise, 38; attempts to enlist, 
47-48; resigns from Star, 49; 
in New York for embarkation 
to Italy, 50; reviewed by Pres. 
Wilson, 50; crosses Atlantic, 
55; reaches Paris, 56; arrives in 
Italy, June, 1918, 57; arrives in 
Schio for ambulance duty, 58; 
writes for Red Cross paper, 
59-61; volunteers for Canteen 
duty, 62; allowed to visit 
trenches, 63; wounded, 60, 65- 
66, 68, 71; hospitalized in Mi- 
lan, 68; assigned to Italian in- 
fantry, 69; decorated, 69; dis- 
charged from Red Cross, 69; 
sails for New York, 69; speaks 
in Oak Park High School, 70; 
goes to Horton Bay, Michigan, 
72; expects to support himself 
as fiction writer, 72; goes to 
Toronto, 74; begins to write 
for Toronto Star Weekly, 80; 
first story for SW, 81; receives 
first SW by-line, 82; final 1920 
story for SW, 93; earnings in 
1920, 94; writing fiction in 
1920, 95; hired by Co-opera- 
tive Commonwealth, 98; moves 
to Chicago in 1920, 99; lives at 
Y. K. Smith's apartment, 99; 
story rejected by Vanity Fair, 
101; sells to Double-Dealer, 
101; meets Sherwood Ander- 
son, 104; reads Anderson's 
work, 105, 148; writes expose 
of Co-operative Society of 
America, 109; meets Hadley 
Richardson, 109; resumes asso- 
ciation with SW, 109; quits 
Co-operative Society of Amer- 
ica, 110; as columnist, 112-113; 



Hemingway, Ernest (cont'd) 
tries to sell fiction to Argosy, 
113; anxiety to return to Eu- 
rope, 114; marriage, 114; re- 
ceives Italian medals, 114-115; 
hired as European correspond- 
ent, 115; writes fiction in 1921, 
116; sails for Paris with wife, 
118; reaches Paris, 119; returns 
to Paris from Switzerland, 123; 
ordered to Genoa, 133; first 
Genoa cable to Daily Star, 
135; interviews Russian dele- 
gation, 137; meets Max East- 
man in Genoa, 138; meets Max 
Beerbohm, 138; attends open- 
ing session of Genoa Eco- 
nomic Conference, 138-140; 
leaves Genoa, 140; travels in 
Europe, 145; meets Gertrude 
Stein, 146; leaves Paris for 
Black Forest walking trip, 159; 
flies from Paris to Strasbourg, 
July, 1922, 161; in Freiburg, 
164; in Triberg, 164; returns 
to Paris, 168; interviews Cle- 
menceau, 168-169; sent to Con- 
stantinople by Daily Star, 170; 
arrives in Constantinople, 172; 
final Near East dispatch, 184- 
185; returns to Paris, 185; 
works for International News 
Service, 187; at Lausanne Con- 
ference, November, 1922, 188; 
meets William Bolitho, 190; 
manuscripts stolen, 196; inter- 
views Mussolini, 197; visits 
Ezra Pound at Rapallo, 202; 
ordered to Ruhr, 203; leaves 
Germany, May, 1923, 223; goes 
to Dolomites, 223; returns to 
Paris, 223; publication, 224; re- 
turns to Canada, 241; plans a 
novel about Toronto, 242; first 
story after return to Toronto, 

251; transfers from DS to SW, 
October, 1923, 251; uses pseu- 
donym, 252-253; decides to re- 
turn to Europe, 254; last ar- 
ticle for SW, 254-255; in New 
York for Lloyd George's ar- 
rival, 255; resigns from To- 
ronto Star, 256; leaves Toron- 
to with wife and son for Eu- 
rope, 257 

High School Fiction 
"Judgment of Manitou," 15- 
17, 21; "A Matter of Colour," 
16-17; "Sepi Jingan," 17-18 

High School Poetry 
"Athletic Verse," 19-20; "How 
Ballad Writing Affects Our 
Seniors," 19; "The Inexpres- 
sible," 19; "The Worker," 19 


"Along with Youth," 227; 
"Montparnasse," 227; "Okla- 
homa," 227; "They All Want 
Peace What is Peace?" 190, 
194; Three Stories 6- Ten 
Poems, 102, 158, 203, 223, 225, 
226, 227, 285-286; "Ultimate- 
ly," 101 

Stories and Articles 
"Big Two -Hearted River," 
141, 158, 273; "God Rest You 
Merry Gentlemen," 49; "An 
Alpine Idyll," 167; "The Kill- 
ers," 41, 94; "L'Envoi," 240; 
"Malady of Power," 266; "Mr. 
and Mrs. Eliot," 154, 261; 
"Monologue to the Maestro," 
266; "My Old Man," 149, 196; 
"A Natural History of the 
Dead," 57; "Old Newsman 
Writes," 266; "On the Quai at 



Hemingway, Ernest (cont'd) 
Smyrna," 186, 280; "A Pursuit 
Race," 49; "The Revolution- 
ist," 43, 215; "Soldier's Home," 
71, 151, 158; "The Snows of 
Kilimanjaro," 180, 181, 186; 
"Up in Michigan," 73, 149, 
152-154, 196; "A Very Short 
Story," 43 


"A Divine Gesture," 101; "The 
Faithful Bull," 275; "The Good 
Lion," 275 

Novels and Short Story Collec- 

Death in the Afternoon, 186, 
228, 266; A Farewell to Arms, 
48, 64, 66, 145, 182; For Whom 
the Bell Tolls, 128; To Have 
and Have Not, 166; in our 
time, 45, 46, 223, 225-227, 229- 
230, 235, 248; In Our Time, 
73, 145, 149, 186, 225, 228, 234, 
235, 236, 239, 241; The Sun 
Also Rises, 125, 131, 141, 145, 
213, 225, 258, 261; The Son-in- 
Laiv (unwritten), 242; The 
Torrents of Spring, 105, 148, 
225, 261, 268 

Art, attitude toward, 102; 
characterization in journalism, 
123-124, 177-178; comments on 
writing, 104, 132, 155-156, 167, 
179, 225, 228, 232, 242; dia- 
logue in journalism, 93, 127- 
128, 132-133, 181, 202, 213-214, 
216, 218, 220, 255, 258, 260; 
distaste for journalism, 101, 
126, 143, 145, 159, 169, 188, 
191, 219, 222-223, 232, 253, 
261-262; expresses "Canadian 
point of view," 123, 124, 126, 

129, 135, 137, 139, 166, 173, 
175, 200-201; hack work, ten- 
dency toward, 87, 90, 113-114, 
126, 128, 143, 160, 163, 165- 
166, 240, 251-252, 261; humor 
in journalism, 81-82, 86, 90, 
101, 111-113, 115, 217, 255, 
259-260; importance of jour- 
nalism, 31-32, 34-35, 38, 39, 49, 

59, 81, 92, 94, 142-143, 151, 
159-160, 161, 174, 179, 231, 
236, 239, 258; narrative in jour- 
nalism, 257; observe politics, 
diplomacy, 134, 174, 190; sat- 
ire on Paris artists and expatri- 
ates, 123-125, 130; sports, 7, 
11, 16, 19-20, 61, 87-89, 94-95, 
102-104, 110, 122, 141, 151, 
170, 196, 229, 251-252, 261; 
World War I, attitude to- 
ward, 50, 55, 57-58, 61, 64, 66- 
69, 72-73, 83-85, 102, 137, 168, 
170-171, 173, 180-182, 229, 262 

Hemingway, Hadley Richard- 
son (wife): 109, 117, 118, 147, 
159, 196, 223, 243, 255, 258, 262 

Hemingway, Marcelline (sister): 

"Hemingway's Early Days": 272 

"Hemingway Slept Here": 272 

Hemingway: The Writer as 
Artist: 266 

Henry IV: 67 

Henry, O. (W. S. Porter): 16 

Her Privates We: 27 1 

Hickok, Guy: 149, 171, 196 

Hicks, Wilson: 36, 49 

Hindmarsh, Harry C.: 242, 244, 
245, 246, 248, 250, 251, 255, 
256, 257, 286 

Home, William D., Jr.: 51, 54, 

60, 73, 95, 99, 100, 104, 106, 
109, 226 

Hopkins, Charlie: 47, 49 



Horton Bay, Michigan: 15, 17, 
26-27, 28, 49, 50, 61, 72, 73, 74, 
89,95,98,113, 147, 196, 197 

Hotchkiss School, The: 51 

Hotel Jacob (Paris): 119 

Hollywood: 29, 38, 245 

Hunting: 252 


Illinois, University of: 26, 38, 53 
Ink on My Fingers: 272 
Institute of Pacific Affairs: 121 
Insull, Samuel: 96 
International News Service: 148, 

171, 187, 189, 190 
"In the Wake of the News": 22. 

See Lardner, Ring. 
Ireland: 175 
Ismet Pasha: 199 
Italy: 48, 53, 57, 58, 135, 137, 

142, 145, 159, 168, 180, 228 
Ivanhoe: 5 


Jackson County Jail (Kansas 
City, Mo.): 46 

James, Edwin: 138 

James, Henry: 52, 57 

Jardin des Plantes: 133 

John Bull: 200 

Johnson, Major: 181, 182 

Johnson, Owen: 112 

Johnston, T. W.: 30 

Journalism, EH begins career in, 
20; EH plans to major in it at 
University of Illinois; impor- 
tance to EH, 94, 160, 179, 231; 
EH's attitude toward, 101, 161, 
179, 191, 219, 232; cabelese, 
186-187, 236; French press, 

Joyce, James: 146, 244 


Kansas City (Mo.): 28, 29, 58, 
62, 64, 71, 75, 95, 192, 198, 228, 
239, 241, 263 

Kansas City Journal: 40 

Kansas City Star: 29, 30, 34-36, 
38, 43, 46-47, 50, 56-57, 59, 70, 
75-77, 161, 249, 273; exchange 
dept., 37-38; former reporters, 
29, 30, 40, 48; morning edition, 
47, 49; New York World, 
compared to, 29; salaries, 46; 
style sheet, 30-33; training 
school, 29-30, 32, 36-39, 42-45, 
49,59,75, 127, 151,258 

Kansas City Times: 47, 49 

Karlsruhe: 211 

Kehl: 162, 163, 165, 216, 218 

Kemal, Mustapha: 172, 173, 175, 
176, 177, 187 

Kerensky, Alexander: 240 

Kilbane, Johnny: 213 

Kilimanjaro, Mt.: 180 

Kipling, Rudyard: 19, 41, 131, 

Knight, Clifford: 37 

V Action Frangaise: 208, 209 

Laird, Landon: 34 

Lake Geneva: 141 

Lake Van: 180 

Landis, Judge Kenesaw M.: 98 

Lardner, Ring: 22-26, 59, 62, 79 

Latin Quarter: 248. See Dome, 

Paris, Rotonde 
Lausanne: 129, 179, 187, 188, 205, 


Leacock, Stephen: 79 
Lenin, Nikolai: 136, 201 
Les Avants, Switzerland: 122, 




Letters of Sherwood Anderson: 


Lewis, Janet: 4, 267 
Liberator, The: 138 
Lippmann, Walter: 193 
Little Magazines: 144 
Little Review: 145, 146, 190, 

229, 230, 233, 234, 235, 236, 

238, 253 
Lloyd George, David: 134, 138, 

170, 222, 255, 258-259, 289 
Loper, Richard: 106 
London (England): 52, 120, 200 
London Daily Herald: 138, 202 
London Daily Mail: 195 
London, Jack: 15 
Longan, George: 46 
Lowry, Mary: 248, 249, 253, 257, 

262, 286 
Luzon: 64 


McAlmon, Robert: 125, 158, 

203, 226 

McDaniel, Marion R.: 24 
MacLeish, Archibald: 200, 224 
McNaught, Carlton: 121 
Macedonia: 67, 139, 185. See 

Greco-Turk War. 
Macmillan Company, The: 52 
Madeleine: 56 
Madamoiselle from Armentieres: 


Madrid: 239. See Spain. 
Mailer, Norman: 64 
Mainz: 217, 219 
Making of Americans, The: 152, 


Manchester Guardian: 192 
Manning, Frederic: 66, 271 
Maran, Rene: 132 
Maritza River: 183, 229 
Marmora, Sea of: 173 

Masefield, John: 53, 254 
Mason, Frank: 148, 149, 150, 171, 

187, 278 
Massey Hall (Toronto): 86, 139, 


Men Like Gods: 259 
Mesopotamia: 175 
Milan: 57, 58, 60, 67, 68, 72, 142, 

238. See American Red Cross 

Hospital, Milan. 
Middle Parts of Fortune, The: 

66, 271 
Middle West: 41. See Chicago, 

Kansas City (Mo.); Oak Park 


Milwaukee Journal: 41 
Mr. and Mrs. Haddocks: 260 
Moise, Lionel C.: 192, 193, 269- 
270, 273; EH's estimate of, 39; 
influence on EH, 38-40; liter- 
ary principles, 39-42, 92 
Monroe, Harriet: 203 
Montmarte: 208. See Paris. 
Mons: 171 
Montreux, 130 
Moorhead, William: 46 
Morgan-Harjes Ambulance Sec- 
tion: 53. See American Field 
Service, American Red Cross 
(Ambulance Corps). 
Mowrer, Paul Scott, Mrs.: See 
Hemingway, Hadley Richard- 

Mudanya: 173, 190 
Muradii: 180 
Muscle Shoals: 113 
Musselman, Morris: 11, 25 
Mussolini, Benito: 142, 197, 199, 
211, 222 


N.A.A.F.I.: 63 

Naked and the Dead, The: 64 
Napoleon: 200, 201 



Nation, The: 96, 98, 189 
National Society of Fruitvalers: 

Nelson, William Rockhill: 29, 

30, 31, 37 

New England: 3, 184 
New Orleans: 101 
New York: 171, 198, 255, 261 
New York Herald Tribune: 250 
New York Journal- American: 


New York Sun: 70 
New York Times: 138, 193 
New York Tribune: 138 
New York World: 29, 193 
Nobel Prize: 253 
Norton, Richard: 52, 53, 57 
Northwestern University: 98 
Noyes, Alfred: 254 

Oak Park (111.): 8, 47, 70, 72, 
81, 95, 184, 198, 204, 241, 243, 
248; attitude toward EH, 1, 2, 

24, 70; descr., 2-3; effect on 
EH, 1, 125; Hemingway 
home, 7; local morality, 7, 8, 
24; prohibition, 3; religion, 4; 
school system (See Oak Park 
High School); social life, 4 

Oak Park (111.) High School: 
37, 59, 64, 71; academic stand- 
ards, 4; athletics, 6, 7, 20, 22; 
Class Book, 11, 14; classmates' 
attitude toward EH, 16, 21, 

25, 26, 70; Commencement, 
1917, 10; faculty attitude to- 
ward EH, 14, 24; teaching sal- 
aries, 4 

Oak Park (111.) High School, 
English Dept.: 5, 9, 10, 16, 17, 
19; ban on popular novels, 5; 
classics, 5; academic standards, 

15-16; composition, 19; fresh- 
man texts, 5; faculty, 8; out- 
side reading, 5; public speak- 
ing, 5, 6; survey of American 
literature, 5 

Oberlin College: 29 

Oberprecthal-in-the-Black For- 
est: 165 

Offenburg: 211, 213, 215, 216, 
217, 219 

Orient: 204 

Ormiston, Tod: 40 

Ouchy: 189, 197 

Palazzo di San Giorgio (Genoa): 

Pamplona: 251 

Paris: 54, 56, 58, 116, 117, 118, 
126, 138, 144, 146, 148, 159, 
171, 174, 183, 203, 211, 212, 
223, 224, 236, 247, 248, 257, 
260, 268; EH and wife reach in 
1922, 119; EH comments on, 
210; in EH's journalism, 130- 
134, 142; importance to EH, 
117; EH satirizes expatriates, 

Paris Was Our Mistress: 267 

Parker, Harrison: 95-97, 109, 

Parker, Harrison, Mrs.: 96 

Parliament: 200 

Pennsylvania State College: 53 

Perkins, Maxwell: 28, 66 

Petoskey, Michigan. See Horton 
Bay, Michigan. 

Piave River: 55, 62, 65 

Pilgrim's Progress: 249 

Pine Lake. See Horton Bay, 

Platt, Frank J.: 2, 6, 7, 14, 21, 71 

Pound, Ezra: 103, 122, 146, 157, 
202, 225, 227, 242, 244, 254 

300 INDEX 

Poetry: 145, 253 
Poincare, Jules: 208 
Price, G. Ward: 195 
Princeton University: 51, 53 
Prizefighting: See Boxing. 
Putnam, Samuel: 267 
Put Out More Flags: 54 

Quebec: 126 

Rakovsky, Christian Georgye- 

vich: 198 

Rapallo: 137, 140, 202, 222 
Reid, Emerson B. (Tim): 80 
Report of the Department of 

Military Affairs (Italy): 54,63 
Rhine River: 162, 167, 213 
Riley, James Whitcomb: 19 
Rochdale Co-operatives: 99 
Rodosto: 184 
Rogers: David: 120, 121 
Rome: 58, 126 
Roosevelt, Theodore: 8 
Rotonde: 119, 124, 125, 144 
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques: 112 
The Ruhr: 160, 249 
Russia: 134, 135, 198 

St. Bernard Pass: 142 

St. John Ambulance: 53 

St. John, Robert: 267 

St. Louis (Mo.): 109 

Saint-Remy: 146 

Saint-Simon, de, Comte: 40 

Sandburg, Carl: 19 

Sandhurst: 238 

Saturday Evening Post: 39, 60, 

62, 248 
Schio (Italy): 58,61 

Scott, Sir Walter: 5 

Scribner's: 235 

Selby, John: 35, 38 

Senior Tabula: 268 

Shakespeare, William: 6, 113 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley: 10 

Siki, Battling: 170 

Silvretta Range: 167 

Simmons, Zalmon, Jr.: 51 

Skiing: 196, 252, 254 

Slocombe, George: 138, 188, 202 

Smith, William B.: 114 

Smith, Y. K.: 99, 100, 108, 113, 
275; atmosphere at Smith 
home, 100, 107, 108; comments 
on relationship between EH 
and Sherwood Anderson, 104; 
memory of EH in 1920-21, 

Smith, Y. K., Mrs.: 99 

Smith, Kate: 99, 109, 114 

Smyrna: 170, 172, 186 

Sofia: 184 

Spain: 145, 157, 204, 228; Hem- 
ingways land in Vigo, 118; in 
EH's journalism, 128 

Spiegel, Frederick W., Jr.: 61, 

Stamboul: 177 

Stanford University: 53 

Star Weekly. See Toronto Star 

Stearns, Harold: 118 

Steffens, Lincoln: 186, 195, 202, 

Stein, Gertrude: 103, 150, 158, 
178, 179, 194, 203, 204, 225, 
226, 236, 242, 244, 260, 266; ad- 
vises EH to quit journalism, 
158-159; EH comments on his 
debt to her, 145, 156; influence 
on EH, 147, 150, 153-160, 179, 
191, 212; The Making of 
Americans, 152, 153; meets 
EH, 146; Three Lives, 152 



Stewart, Donald Ogden: 260 
The Story of the American Red 
Cross in Italy: 271 
Stout, Wesley W.: 39 
Strasbourg: 161, 211, 212 
Strater, Henry: 202, 238 
Switzerland: 122-123, 129, 141, 
145, 188 

Tabula, The: 6, 10, 16, 17, 19, 


Talleyrand: 201 

Tchitcherin, George: 137, 138, 
140, 189, 196, 198, 200, 202, 

Thayer, Scofield: 146 
This Was My World: 267 
Thrace: 67, 230. See Greco- 
Turk War. 
Three Lives: 152 
Three Mountains Press: 203 
Time Magazine: 207 
Toklas, Alice B.: 146, 226 
Topeka (Kan.) Capitol: 31 
Toronto: 27, 95, 109, 116, 119 
133, 137, 146, 147, 148, 159, 
173, 196, 204, 205, 220, 226, 
239, 241, 249; EH's attitude 
toward, 242; EH and bride ar- 
rive in, 115; literary renais- 
sance, 79, 82 

Toronto Newspaper Guild: 256 
Toronto Daily Star: 75, 80, 81, 
116, 135, 137, 159, 163, 165, 
169, 171, 172, 184, 187, 188, 
196, 200, 205, 207, 211, 222, 
237, 242; importance to EH; 
professional standards, 77 
Toronto Star: 78, 116, 222, 226, 
244, 250; desc. by J. H. Cran- 
ston; hires EH as European 
correspondent, 115; profes- 

sional standards, 76-77; im- 
portance to EH, 75; require- 
ments for foreign correspond- 
ents, 119-121. See Toronto 
Daily Star, The Toronto Star 
Limited, Toronto Star Week- 

The Toronto Star Limited: 75, 
245, 287 

Toronto Star Weekly. 75, 77, 
81, 84-85, 109, 115-116, 123, 
125-127, 135, 142, 158-159, 205, 
209, 222, 239, 243, 258; con- 
tributes to Can. literary ren- 
aissance, 79; desc., 76-79; in- 
fluence on EH, 107; need for 
young writers, 79; profession- 
al standards, 77-79; publishes 
EH for first time, 81; use of 
comic strips, 76 

Toronto, University of: 246, 248 

Trapeze, The: 11, 20-23, 25, 26, 
59, 87, 217, 267; EH writes for 
as high school junior, 21 

Triberg: 164 

Turkey: 170, 199. See Greco- 
Turk War. 

Twain, Mark: 41 

Tzara, Tristan: 186 


Ulysses: 146 

United Station (Kansas City, 

Mo.): 35 
Universal News Service: 187- 

190, 196 

Vandercook, Dorothy: 272 
Vanity Fair: 107, 261 
Verdun: 53 
Versailles: 172 



Vicenzia (Italy): 58 
Vigo (Spain): EH and wife 
land there, dispatch about, 121 
Voltaire: 112 


Wagenknecht, Edward: 7, 13 
Wales, Henry: 188 
Walsh, Ernest: 253 
Waugh, Evelyn: 54 
Wellington, C. G. (Pete): 31- 

34, 36, 40, 42-43, 45-46, 77, 151, 

192, 250; influence on EH, 76 
Wells, H. G.: 5, 259 
"When Hemingway Earned 

Half a Cent a Word on the 

Toronto Star": 272 
Williams, William Carlos: 226 
Wilcoxen, Fred: 19, 20, 25 
Willcox, Edward: 10 
Wilson, Edmund: 149-150, 152, 

191, 224, 226, 241 
Wilson, Woodrow: 8, 50, 52, 59 
Winesburg, Ohio: 147, 149 

Winters, Janet Lewis: See Lewis, 

Wirth, Joseph: 140 

"With Hemingway Before A 
Farewell to Arms": 266 

Wittal, Captain: 181-182 

Woollcott, Alexander: 193 

Woon, Basil: 143 

World War I: 8, 27, 28, 47, 52, 
79. See Italy. 

Wornall, Shorty: 237-238 

Wright, Donald M.: 99, 100, 101, 
103, 108, 132, 275; admiration 
for Sherwood Anderson, 100, 
103; attitude toward EH, 100, 
106; diagnoses relationships 
between EH and Sherwood 
Anderson, 106; "A Mid-West- 
ern Ad Man Remembers," 
101, 108; publishes sketch of 
Y. K. Smith group, 101 

Wright, Harold Bell: 112 

Yale University: 54, 271 
Yeats, William Butler: 253, 288